Filigree and Roses
by Lindri Night
Summary: The first and far inferior version of my magnum opus, Costumes and Filigree, where Erik wins, and Raoul dies. It's such a completely different story than my rewrite that I don't want to take it down...but read the other one instead!
1. The Voice

It took me three years to write this thing, and then three more to tear it completely apart and rewrite it as _Costumes and Filigree_, which is, trust me, about a _zillion_ times better. So read that one. I was so young when I wrote this one that it's almost embarrassing to have people read it…but I don't want to take it down. So if you want to read it—and it _is_ a good story—keep in mind that I was in middle school when I wrote it. :)

**Chapitre Un**

_**La Voix**_

Christine Daaé sat down heavily on the old, creaking stool in front of her dressing table and rested her head in her arms. Tonight's performance had taken a lot out of her. Even though her part was minor—merely a member of the Chorus—it was still difficult to sing the background harmony to Despina's aria in _Così Fan Tutte_. And since La Carlotta, the lead soprano, had been throwing more fits than usual, there had not been much chance to practice. Why, some scenes had only been fully run-through two or three times! But even so, Christine had done much worse than the other members of the Chorus. She had thoroughly destroyed the song "Torments Implacable", hitting several wrong notes, and then stretched a muscle too far in one of the dances. Of course, Mme. Giry had not criticized her, but still….

She had heard the other chorus girls whispering about her, about how she didn't belong there—her voice just wasn't good enough. She could feel tears of frustration welling up behind her eyes; no matter how hard she tried to hold them back, they still threatened to spill forth down her pale cheeks and soak the sleeves of her gown.

Forcing the tears back, she reached for her street clothes and proceeded to change out of her costume. It was a very chilly night outside, even in the dress that Mamma Valerius had given her—simple brown wool, a pattern of rosemary embroidered into it. She'd had such dresses in Scandinavia, as a little girl. Listening to her father play on his violin, watching the waves crashing into the cliffs along the beach….

With a sigh, she pulled the ornaments out of her hair and stared at the picture of her father that she kept by her mirror. _Oh Father, _she thought miserably, _how will I ever learn to sing, as you always assured me I could? _Turning away from the picture, she thought to herself, _Am I not worthy of the Angel's presence? Of his guidance? _

Her mind whirled back to that night, so many years ago, when her father lay dying. When he assured her that the moment he reached the gates of Heaven, he would send the Angel of Music to her. To guide and teach her in the art of song. But it had been years—and no Angel had ever graced her with his presence.

She was no longer trying to hold back her tears. Openly sobbing, Christine laid her head back on the dressing table and wished that she would just die. At least, then, she would get to see her father again.

A soft voice broke through the anguished silence. Christine's head shot up. Her first thought was that it was the Angel. But that was just wishful thinking.

But it was singing, so beautifully….

It was an aria she could put no name to—far more beautiful and heavenly than any she had ever heard. Slowly standing, so as not to scare it, she searched her closet. There was nothing in her closet, or behind her dresser. She opened the door and peered down the hall—but there was nothing there. But the Voice was still singing, even more beautifully than before. The tears had long since stopped, but a fierce ache pulled at her heart, demanding that she find the source of the music. Surely something so perfect, so divine, had to be an angel!

Christine walked out into the hall and entered the room to the right of hers. It never entered her mind that she could get in trouble for getting caught in someone else's dressing room; the power of the Voice was too intoxicating to leave room for anything else. The room on the left was empty; so was the one on the other side. And what was stranger, she couldn't even hear the Voice from anywhere except from within her own room. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Was she hallucinating?

Dismissing this thought, she decided to enjoy the aria and not worry about where it was coming from. After all, if it was an angel, she probably wouldn't be able to see it.

As the aria came to a close, the heavenly euphoria that had erased Christine's sorrow faded, and she found herself crying again.

"Why are you crying?" The disembodied voice asked concernedly. His voice was smooth and resonant; as commanding as the bells of Notre Dame herself, yet as sad and sweet as the laments of her father's violin.

Her father…. The very thought of him, lying in a coffin as burly men lowered him into the tomb, brought forth more of her bitter tears. It took her a few minutes to calm herself enough to respond, "I—I miss my father, and I'm afraid I'll get thrown out of the Chorus because I can't sing well enough…." After a moment of silence, she added, "Who are you?"

But the Voice was gone.


	2. Mamma Valerius' Conclusion

**Chapter Two:**

**L'Conclusion de Mammifère Valerius**

"And so I asked who he was," Christine explained to her adoptive mother, Mamma Valerius, later that night. She couldn't hardly wait to tell her—Mamma had always held that the Angel would come. She had an unshakable faith in the divine, which Christine had revered since her childhood.

The kind and superstitious old woman nodded, enthralled by Christine's story. "And vat did 'e say?" she prompted, slightly impatient. Her eyes were unusually wide, pushing back the wrinkles of her worn face.

Christine just shrugged, starting to regret bringing it up at all. She hated to disappoint Mamma, but there was nothing else to say. "He didn't say anything," she sighed. Absentmindedly shaping her mashed potatoes with her fork, she added, "Just silence."

The old woman looked very excited, brushing aside the fact that the strange voice had not spoken. She ignored the dinner they were supposed to be eating, deeming such a miraculous event much more worthy of her attention. "I' mu-zt be ze Ang-hel! At any h'rate, you can do no 'arm by as-king 'im."

Christine smiled politely and mulled this over, still fiddling with her potatoes. Of course that's what Mamma would say. Every perfect note she hit (and that didn't happen overly-often), every compliment she received from a patron of the opera—they were all signs that the Angel was here at last. And it had never been so. But could it be? Could the Voice really be the Angel her father had promised her? It was almost too wonderful to imagine.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

After the next night's performance, Christine entered her dressing room with a mixture of fear and excitement whirling in her mind. What if, after all these years of waiting, the Angel finally appeared to her and continued her father's teachings? The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. After all, what else could the Voice be, but an Angel? She confidently strode over to her vanity table and sat down, listening; waiting.

But the Voice never came. After three hours of waiting, pretending to be preoccupied with rearranging the items on her dresser, combing through her hair, and making sure her costume was in perfect condition, she gave up. Sighing, she stared at her reflection in her wall mirror.

"Perhaps the stress just got to you," Christine told her reflection wearily. "If there _was_ an Angel, surely he would've come by now." Defeated, she threw a patched shawl over her shoulders and started for the door.

And that's when the Voice came. He was singing one of Ferrando's arias in _Così Fan Tutte—_the last opera Christine had performed in. His rendition of _Un Aura Amorosa_ made the star of the show seem wretched by comparison.

Gathering her courage, Christine asked excitedly, "Are—are you the Angel of Music?"

After a moment of silence the Voice responded, low and mellow to her inquiry, "Yes my child, your father sent me from Heaven to mold your voice into that which even my fellow angels shall envy!"

Christine was so giddy that she couldn't answer for a moment. It was him! The Angel was finally here! These feelings that rushed through her being were like… like having her father's voice once more softly showing her the correct dictation to a simple aria. This Angel was what she had prayed for all those nights she had slept all alone in the ballet dormitories!

She and the Voice talked late into the night, about the Opera, her future singing lessons, and her life within the opera house as a chorus girl. By the time Christine retired from the dressing room, she was so lost in her own world of music that she did not notice La Carlotta—the Opera's leading soprano—flinging insults at her as she passed. She returned home in a daze.


	3. The Angel's Instruction

**Chapter Three:**

**L'Enseignement de L'Ange**

Weeks passed, and Christine's talent grew vastly under the Angel's instruction. She asked more than once when she would be permitted to use the beautiful voice that the Angel had bestowed upon her, but he just told her, firmly, that "Soon you will be given a chance to show the world your heavenly voice; but do not enlighten anyone as to your voice _yet_." So Christine still used her everyday voice for her rehearsals with the chorus, but the Angel assured her that they would soon astonish the entire Opera—both the cast and the audience, but especially the horrid La Carlotta, who maintained that Christine "sang like a crock".

It was in this frame of mind that Christine took a seat on the stage, waiting to hear the casting for _Faust_. She had no high hopes of attaining a main part—or any part, save that of a chorus girl. But the Angel had been teaching her—didn't that count for something?

Mme. Giry stood, and addressed the cast. "You all did wonderfully on _Così Fan Tutte_; my congratulations. Even the Duke of Marseilles came to see it, and said, if my memory serves me correctly, he said it was 'worthy of the king'. Now, as for _Faust_"—she drew a paper up to eye-level with a characteristic flourish—"La Carlotta shall play the lead, with Piangi as her lover. Frédéric, you will be his servant…"

Christine lowered her head into her hands, and did not bother to listen to the rest. She would be a faceless member of the chorus, as she always was. And yet, this time it hit especially hard; _Carlotta_ hadn't been taught by the Angel.

She told the Angel this the next time he came, and, to her surprise, he laughed. "Well then, Christine Daaé," he at last, "I deem that you may now give to men a little of the music of Heaven."

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Then, one night soon after, La Carlotta didn't show up for a performance of _Faust_—of which she was the star. This was nothing new, of course; she did this sometimes, when her nasty little Spanish temper overtook her. The old managers, MM. Debienne and Poligny—just recently retired—had always been forced to beg, to plead, and shower Carlotta with undeserved praise and attention. It always worked, in the end. But the new managers did not cope with her tantrums as well as the old ones did. There was an important performance tonight, and they were short their lead soprano. They would have to refund a full house! In desperation, they asked the Chorus Master if any of the Chorus girls could sing well enough to take La Carlotta's place. He knew of no one. But then Madame Giry spoke up.

"Christine Daaé could sing it, Monsieur. She has learned from a great teacher."

Christine wondered at this. How did Madame Giry—the Ballet Mistress—know that Christine was being instructed by the Angel?

The managers were astonished as well. A Chorus girl—as good as La Carlotta? Perhaps not, they reasoned, but this Mlle. Daaé was the best they had. "Who, Mademoiselle?" Monsieur Firmin asked her finally.

Christine blushed and stared at the floor. "I—I don't know, Monsieur. He has never told me his name." Well, he was an angel; did he _have_ a name?

MM. Andre and Firmin glanced at each other, and neither made any move to break the awkward silence that stretched throughout the expanse of the stage. "Very well," Firmin said at last.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

As Christine dressed for the Opera, she wondered if the Angel had had a hand in this. _Perhaps_, she thought to herself, _he is merely trying to give me a chance to show everyone how my talent has progressed. _It didn't matter. She—a poor, peasant girl from a small Scandinavian village, thought to be destined for little more than a dismal marriage and a lackluster life—was singing the part of a star. More specifically, she was going to sing the prison scene of _Faust_. What more could a girl ask for?

——————————————————————————————————————————————

As the curtain slowly escalated, revealing a silent and staring audience, Christine thought that she was going to faint. All those people, watching, waiting… waiting for her to sing. She wouldn't let her father down. She closed her eyes, and let the Angel's music take wing.

She sang beautifully, and all of Paris would remember that night for years afterwards, whether they had actually been present or not. Christine felt as if her very soul was leaving her body, and sang with a rapture that she had never before experienced. The voice of her Angel was ringing inside her head, his dulcet tones mixing with the music, whispering words of comfort and encouragement. Though the music of the orchestra was loud enough to break one's ears, the Voice rang above all else. And yet, for all his support, she felt her legs start to shiver and weaken. Oh, how much longer could the music last?

Finally, as if it had lasted for a millennium, and as suddenly as it had started, the song was over. As the entire House erupted into thunderous applause, she fainted and fell to the stage floor, tears rolling uncontrollably down her pale cheeks.


	4. Raoul de Chagny

I hate writing from Christine's point of view, for two reasons: 1), that I have to leave out great little-known words and glorious descriptions, because she's too stupid to think that way, and 2), along the same lines, because she's so dense, it makes the story seem stupid because it's _her _telling it. But it has to be from her POV for the most part of the first dozen chapters or so, so please bear with me. It gets better.

**Chapter Four:**

**Raoul de Chagny**

Christine awoke to the sound of frantic voices. What was going on? She groaned, all the events of the night whirling in her head, a tumult of color and pain. At long last, opened her eyes, only to receive an even bigger shock. Raoul was here, bending over her, his face radiating anxiety and concern. No, not him! Not here! The Angel had not been pleased when he had learned that Christine's childhood sweetheart was the new patron of the Opera Populaire. _'If you must bestow your heart on earth,' the Voice had told her sadly, 'there is nothing for me to do but go back to Heaven.'_ It had never before occurred to her that the Voice was jealous. She had assured the Voice that she could never love Raoul, and commenced to avoid him whenever they happened to meet. She hadn't acknowledged Raoul's presence—and this was certainly not the time to do so.

"Monsieur," she whispered faintly, "who are you?" Would Raoul believe that she did not recognize him?

Raoul dropped to one knee and kissed her hand passionately. She inadvertently flinched, both embarrassed and touched by his gallantry. If only the Voice wasn't watching… "Mademoiselle," he said with a dashing smile, "_I am the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf_."

Christine winced inwardly; what if the Angel had heard that? Would she ever hear his voice again? She quickly decided that it was best to continue to feign indifference, and began to laugh, as did the doctor and the maid, who were standing there. Actually, she had forgotten about that scarf…

Raoul turned red and stood up. "I would like to have a private word with you, Christine."

"Aaahh… when I am better, do you mind?" she asked sweetly, her voice shaking. Couldn't he just _get out_? Raoul turned to leave. The hurt expression on his face pained her greatly; he did not deserve such an ill reception. But the Angel took precedence. Didn't he?

She dismissed the doctor and the maid, who were still hovering over her. Before the maid left, Christine gave her curt instructions that she was not—under any circumstances—to be disturbed. She had kept the Angel waiting long enough already.

And, seating herself in a comfortable armchair, she laid back and waited for him to appear.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Raoul had positioned himself just outside the door. It was an ungentlemanly, despicable thing to do, he knew, waiting outside a lady's room; but it was obvious that Christine had forced them all out of the room so that she could talk to him alone. It was roundabout and somewhat insulting, the way she had gone about it, but fortunately he had seen through her feigned indifference. And, at any moment, she would open the door and they would be able to meet in private.

Oh, Christine! Such a beauty she had been as a child, and such a voice… But it was nothing—_nothing_—compared to her divine radiance now. She was a goddess, a paragon of splendorous glory and beauty beyond that of Helen, of Venus! Her hair, the gentle color of dark chocolate, dusted with sugar, soft and silken… Her skin, the flawless perfection of wintry cream, offsetting her glorious dark eyes, resplendent and dazzling… And her voice! God above! There was never an angel whose voice could compare. She was the Tabula Rasa of song, the quintessence of immortal splendor—

"Christine, you must love me!"

Raoul froze.

For it was not he who had spoken.

Who was this brazen invader? There was only one person who had the right to speak those words, and it was he, Raoul! The man's voice had been loving, demanding, and—though he hated to admit it—absolutely beautiful. If anything, it sounded like an angel.

Then he heard Christine's voice, cross and tired. ""How can you talk like that?" she demanded. _Yes, Christine, _he thought with a triumphant smile. _Tell him how out of line he is, to stand in my way!_

But Christine wasn't finished. "When I sing only for you!"

Raoul almost cried out in surprise. Whom would Christine sing for, if not her childhood sweetheart? He resisted the unwise impulse to break down the door and confront the man.

The man's reply sounded apologetic, and a little taken aback. It only made him sound sadder. "Are you very tired?"

"Tired?" said Christine with a giddy laugh. "Tonight I gave you my _soul_."

Raoul fought to keep silent, assiduously keeping his ear pressed to the door. How dare this man enter Christine's dressing room? How dare he command her to love him? How dare he ignore her suffering? But, as outraged as he was, the despicable audacity of this unknown suitor gave him comfort as well. He, Raoul, would never do any of these ungentlemanly things; surely Christine would see this, and then there would be nothing to stand between him and his beautiful love.

"Your soul is a beautiful thing, Christine, and I thank you—no emperor ever received so fair a gift. _The angels wept tonight_."

Raoul rolled his eyes. What a ridiculous thing to say. Did this man think he was a god, speaking of receiving souls and weeping angels? There was no competition, he was certain. But still, Christine was locked in a room with this unknown dastard, and it was up to him to rescue her!

And with that, he broke down the door.

He drew his sword as he entered, ready to fight to the death, if need be. Christine stared at him, shocked beyond words; Raoul pulled her gently behind him, so the enemy would not harm her. There was only one problem.

There was no one else in the room.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

A/N: Yes, I actually did mean "dastard", not "bastard". Raoul is too cultured to use crude language like that.


	5. In Her Dressing Room

**Chapter Five:**

**Dans Son Pansement Salle**

For the first time in her life, Christine was afraid to sing. The whole horrifying experience had not allowed her to sleep peacefully for a fortnight now; she awoke, every night, clutching her chest, terrified that her soul had escaped from her body.

But of course, she could tell no one this—though many people inquired as to why she hadn't continued her triumph of _Faust_. For who would believe that the Angel of Music had taught her to sing? That one's soul could be summoned, dragged form their body with but a drop of the Angel's music? Christine wondered herself, sometimes, if she was just hearing voices inside her head; that, in her desperation to find the Angel, combined with her grief for her father, her mind had invented the whole thing…

She put off thinking about it—she had more pressing issues to contend with, at the moment. And they could all be summed up in one word: Raoul.

Firstly, there had been that terrible night when he broke down her door, expecting to fight the Angel. It had taken all her wits to convince him that there was no one in the room, and the best thing to do was to leave. She was rather proud of herself for how she'd accomplished it. She had pretended to cry over the broken door, claiming that it was beautiful and irreplaceable. In fact, as she stood over it, she noticed that it had little angels and _fleurs-de-lis_ carved into it. It really _was _a pretty door. She'd never noticed.

Raoul had, of course, sheepishly sheathed his rapier and promised to have it repaired as soon as possible. And then—thank God—he had left to see to it, after extracting a promise from her that she would be fine by herself. She watched him walk down the hall, feeling a tumult of emotion in her pounding heart. He was so handsome, so kind, so caring… He had thought, after all, he was coming to her aid. But the Angel… She shuddered to think of what he had thought.

Raoul had taken to following her around the Opera Populaire, speaking non-stop of their days as children together. He had also decided to attend every practice that Christine was part of, seated in Box Five (What if the Phantom saw him there? She had heard disturbing rumors about the demands of the Opera Ghost. In a brief moment of flaring anger, she wished that the Phantom would swoop down out of nowhere and strangle Raoul with his infamous Punjab Lasso. Of course, she regretted this thought immediately and rapped her knuckles against the first piece of wood she saw). _And_ Raoul interrupted the performance every five minutes, due to his cheering every time Christine sang. She always flushed and failed miserably to ignore him.

More than once, he had cornered her and demanded to know why she refused to acknowledge his presence. But she had just thrust hasty excuses at him and slipped away. She _obviously _couldn't tell _him_ about the Voice! How would that sound—"Uh, I am deeply aggrieved, my dear Raoul, but the Angel of Music is jealous of you and, if I say a mere word to you, he'll leave me forever, and I'll lose my Voice and go back to being the paltry, everyday singer that I was before." Even in her own head, the words sounded stupid.

She had tried to tell him about the Angel of Music—to secretly warn him—but he just nodded sympathetically and said, "Yes, Christine, of course." He didn't believe her. What else could she do…?

But still, it was secretly quite lovely to have such a dedicated admirer. In Raoul's eyes, she had no flaws. But it was still terrible for her to hear his compliments; even as they sent a wave of heat through her body, a chill ripped at her heart—what if the Angel heard?

——————————————————————————————————————————————

One particularly exasperating evening, Raoul went so far as to sneak into her dressing room and lie in wait for her. Christine came in and sat down, exhausted from the night's performance. She at once started to remove her costume, relieved that she had not seen hide nor hair of Raoul all day. She slid her arm out of the confining sleeve and through the puffy shoulder pad, loosened the ties in the back. But before she had gotten very far, she heard a suspicious noise that sounded strangely like the shuffling of feet. Whirling about, holding her costume up with her free hand, she immediately saw him, only half hidden, behind an oversized mirror.

Screaming in outrage, Christine threw open the door and ordered him out. She was so infuriated that complete sentences seemed quite beyond her reach. Such phrases as "what's wrong with you", "don't you understand what dressing rooms are intended for" and "before I kill you myself" were all that got past her lips.

But far from being cowed and leaving immediately—as a gentleman would have (even though a gentleman wouldn't have hidden in her dressing room in the first place)—Raoul began to laugh. Emerging from behind the mirror, he strode towards the door—and closed it. "Little Lotte," he began, using her childhood nickname, "You shant avoid me any longer. I've arranged for a private dinner—just you and me. I'll ready the carriage, while you get dressed—" he eyed her somewhat less-than-decent attire with amusement, "—in something more… suitable. I'll give you two minutes." And with that, he turned and left.

"_The Angel is very strict!"_ Christine shouted after him.But Raoul was—having practically sprinted all the way down to the main entrance—long gone. "Well," she declared to herself, "I'm definitely _not_ going anywhere special tonight, so I might as well go home." And she once again closed the door, locked it, inspected her room for any more un-gentlemanly intruders, and commenced the removal of her costume. Replacing it with a warmer dress to walk home in took a shorter time than Raoul had dictated, but she decided she wouldn't walk out for a while yet. He might come inside just as she was nearly out, so she needed to decide what back door and route to take to get home without running into him.

But Christine was wrong. She definitely _was_ going somewhere important tonight. But—not in her wildest dreams—could she have ever guessed where.


	6. The Truth of the Angel

**Chapter Six:**

**L'Vérité Révélée de l'Ange**

Christine was furious. Stupid Raoul—the Angel would not like this. What if he had heard—or worse! What if he had _seen_ Raoul wait for her in her _private_ rooms? _What would the Angel think?_ But maybe, she reasoned, he had heard her outburst and decided that she wanted no part of Raoul's company. Maybe—just maybe—he wouldn't disappear, as she feared he would, at this crucial point in her career. Indeed, she needed the Angel now more than ever…

Suddenly, all the light in the room was obliterated. Every candle, every torch, gave way to immeasurable darkness. Christine heard Angel's voice, resounding off of the walls, magnifying with every reverberation until it was almost deafening. _"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory… Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"_

Finally, he was here! "Angel, I hear you—please, stay by my side, guide me!" Christine thought it best to sound like she was sorry. In the least, respectful.

The Angel's response was considerably warmer. "Flattering child, you shall know me, see why in shadow I hide…" And after a brief pause, "Look at your face in the mirror, dearest, I am there inside."

Christine looked—and there he was! The Angel, gazing at her in the mirror! She whirled around, but no one was there.

Before she knew what was happening, her Angel's voice had seduced her into an inviting trance… She no longer knew who she was, or where she was—nor did she care! All that mattered now was the _beautiful_ voice drifting through the walls, enveloping her, overwhelming her… She was singing as well, although she did not know the words.

And, suddenly, the mirror vanished; only the tarnished frame remained. The Angel, still invoking the powers of his heavenly voice, held out his hand to her. And, without a thought, she took it.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Raoul waited in the carriage for a few minutes, thinking of the lovely dinner he was about to spend with Christine, and how best he could extract from her the reason why she was blatantly ignoring him. At first he had thought it was her way of making him love her more, but it had begun to tire as of late. Perhaps it was just her maidenly shyness. Well, that was alright. Surely she would get over that in due time.

To pass the time, he absentmindedly studied the interior of the carriage. Though he rode in it most every day, he never took the time to admire it. The windows were lined with gold leaf, and equipped with shining little hinges to allow air in to the passengers. The wall opposite him was painted with an accurate reproduction of da Vinci's _Annunciation_, glowing in the light of the street. It was a beautiful painting, depicting a kneeling Gabriel revealing to Mary that she was to bear the son of God. His wings were luminescent and golden, looking like the delicate wings of a swallow rather than the strong eagle-wings that Raoul fancied angels really had.

Christine had babbled something about an angel, before she had started crying about her door. He supposed it was the Angel of Music that her esteemed father had always talked about. He still felt terrible about breaking her door like that… Surely she didn't think that it was the Angel of Music she had been talking to that night? No, that was ridiculous.

Where was Christine? Surely it did not take so long to dress. Perhaps she had gotten lost? She never had had much of a sense of direction… With a sigh, he started back up the steps into the opera house.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Christine's Angel led her down a set of darkened steps, glancing back occasionally, singing all the while. Still in a state of trance, Christine followed without uncertainty. It was not until later—much later—that she questioned the intelligence of this blind trust she placed in a man who might not have been the Angel—he could have been anyone! For all she knew, he might have been an axe-murderer.

Their voices twined into a heavenly crescendo, singing, singing! Christine's mind was filled with naught but for the Angel before her. He helped her mount a white horse—Caesar, she realized, also much later, who had been "abducted by the Opera Ghost".

And for what felt like an eternity, they traveled through an endless tunnel, lit only by the fickle light of the candelabras lining the stone walls. Finally they reached a small boat, floating in—was it a river, a canal? Christine did not know, for she paid no attention to her surroundings.

The Angel helped her down from her horse, and into the dinghy. They were still singing! He guided the small craft through the water and perpetual mists, which seemed to blanket the tunnels in a serene calm.

At long last, they reached a stone dock, ancient and falling apart. He gently lifted her out of the boat, and secured the small vessel before stepping out himself. Abruptly the song ended, and Christine was thrown from the relative safety of her delirium. Where was she? Who was this man, lifting her out of a boat? _Who was he?_ She screamed in alarm and wrenched herself away from him. "Angel!" she cried, clutching trembling fingers around the cross at her throat. "Angel, help me!"

Unexpectedly, the man released her and straightened up. Arms folded, he said brusquely, "Don't be afraid, Christine; you are in no danger."

_It was the Voice!_ Christine's anger equaled her amazement. _This man_—standing there, clad fully in black, a porcelain mask covering half of his face—_was her Angel of Music? _No, it could not be true! She rushed towards him in an attempt to rip off his mask—she had to see his face.

But the Voice took hold of her wrists, gently forcing her into a nearby chair. "You are in no danger, so long as you do not touch the mask." He seemed terribly sad, and knelt silently at her feet, as if beseeching forgiveness.

Christine began to cry, silently, her face in her hands. No, this could not be true! All her hopes, her dreams—gone, dashed; and in their place, this man… This man, who had lied to her; convinced her that the Angel of Music had come at last… Oh, she had been such a fool!

The Voice—or whoever he was—seemed to comprehend the reason for her tears. "It is true, Christine! ...I as not am Angel, nor a genius, nor a ghost… I am Erik!"

_So,_ Christine thought miserably, _this_ _is the Opera Ghost. And that, too, is but a sham; merely a fantasy to ensnare the weak minded… But, _whispered a small voice in the back of her mind,_ even if this Erik isn't an Angel, nor a ghost… he remains the Voice._

And so he was—for Erik could still sing, if nothing else. He still knew enough about music to be her teacher, didn't he? _But he wasn't the Angel…_

"I am sorry, Christine, sorry for everything," he lamented sorrowfully, still on his knees. "I did not want to lie to you. You may go back to the surface, if you like—go to dinner with the Vicomte de Chagny, and forget that you ever knew the Voice. I will not stop you."

Christine, still undecided, started to rise from the chair. But at that crucial moment, Erik began to sing; and as his gentle voice filled the room, all thoughts of leaving were obliterated from her mind.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Wow, Christine's poor mind certainly is easily overthrown. Is the power of Erik's voice really so powerful? Or is it just that Christine is freakin' stupid? The latter seems much more likely…


	7. The Mask

**Chapter Seven:**

**L'Masque**

Christine awoke to the tinkling noise of a—was it a music box? She cast around the room, and discovered the source of the haunting melody—a small, antique-looking monkey, a smile fixed upon its face, a pair of diminutive cymbals in its hands. Where was she? After a quick examination of the room she was in, Christine was even more confused than she had been before. She was on a beautiful and luxurious swan-shaped bed, with velvet sheets; it seemed like something from a fairy tale. Her room was, in actuality, more of a small alcove, with no doors; a translucent curtain hid her from the scrutiny of the outside world.

The music box stopped, giving way to a much more beautiful sound: an organ, somewhere beyond the curtain. Its haunting melodies and sorrowful chords sent a shiver down her spine. Who was playing? Christine eased herself up from the bed and crossed over to the curtain. Pulling it aside, she found herself in an enormous cavern. And there—there, in the center of the room, there was an ancient pipe organ… and seated at it, a man.

Everything hit Christine at once—all the memories of the Angel of Music, the blurry dream that was last night… this was her Angel! As if sensing her presence, Erik turned around, for a moment—then went back to his music.

"Hello, Erik," she ventured.

Erik returned her greeting with a nod. "Christine." After a moment of terse silence, he said, "I love you, Christine… But I won't tell you so unless you allow me to. But never mind that—the rest of our time together shall be devoted to music."

"And… how long would that be?" A few hours, a month?

"Five days," he answered decisively.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

For the next few days, Christine felt as if she were in heaven. Her Erik was so good to her, constantly at her side, teaching her… She learned much in those three days. And, unconsciously, she still referred to him as "the Angel", and still thought of him as well. It was too much for her mind to deal with, that she had been tricked, and she found it much easier to believe that he was indeed the glorious Angel of Music that her father had promised her. As her time with him went on, she found herself completely believing that he really _was_ the Angel, masked in the flesh of a mortal man.

But something was gnawing at the back of her mind—what was under Erik's mask?

He was so good-looking—at least, the half of his face that she could see. What could he possibly have to hide? Several times, she had to stop her hand from reaching up and ripping off his mask. But what could it possibly disguise? If one side of his face was handsome, then how could the other side not be?

It struck her at one point that perhaps it concealed his true face—the face of an Angel. Too radiant for any mortal eye to behold. Yes, that made perfect sense. Or, at least, it did for a few hours. Then it hit her that it was terrible impractical to change one's entire self to look human except for half their head. But what did she know of the Divine? Perhaps it was a rule that, when an Angel clothed himself in mortal flesh, he could not cover himself entirely. But then, why not choose one's hand, or foot? Feet were always covered, and Erik wore gloves. She could not make sense of it at all, and, after a day of mulling it over, she gave up. There was only one way to know, and she was too scared to do it.

To take her mind off of this mystery, Christine asked him what he had been working on, at his organ.

"An opera," he replied shortly. "Called _Don Juan Triumphant_."

"Will you play something of it?" she asked, thinking to please him.

"No, Christine," murmured Erik sadly. "I will play you anything but that… For my Don Juan burns with all the passion of the fires of Hell, every suffering ever endured by mankind…" He trailed off into silence. "Let us sing something from the Opera," he suggested, rather offhandedly.

Christine nodded, somewhat mystified. They began to sing a duet with a passion that she had never before experienced. Erik was singing the part of Othello; his voice was so sensuous and beautiful! What could there possibly be hidden under his mask? Perhaps the face of an angel, far too heavenly to be looked upon by human eyes… Why did he hide it from her? Nothing could ever change the overwhelming power of his voice, or the passion that had gripped her from the first moment she had heard it. She could bear it no longer.

Too fast for the eye to follow, Christine's hand flashed out and upwards—and Erik's mask flew from his face.


	8. What Lay Underneath

**Chapter Eight:**

**Se que Élaborer Sous**

Nothing—nothing could have prepared Christine for the horror that met her eyes. She had been expecting something heavenly—the face of an Angel, shining in immaculate perfection in the divine light of God. Oh, the fantasy her treacherous mind had created—! How could she have believed that the flesh behind Erik's mask was anything heavenly and divine?

Seeing Erik's face was like… like seeing Death. She screamed and stumbled backwards, eyes wide in horror and unable to look away. There were no words to describe the horror that lay underneath the white mask.

But, as bad as Christine's reaction was…

It was nothing compared to Erik's.

"Damn you!" he screamed in anguish, jumping up and clamping a hand to his face. His eyes were burning, raging! He screamed and swore, hissing mad, incoherent words and curses as her. But through his anger, Christine could see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes; the look of never-ending grief, and sorrow… He bent over Christine, and cried, _"Look! You want to see? See! Feast your eyes, glut your soul on my cursed ugliness!"_ Christine was frightened beyond reckoning. Not because of how Erik looked—well, maybe a little—but because of the furious gleam in his eyes, and the chance that he, despite the fact that he loved her, might take her life. She tried to turn her head away.

But Erik took hold of her shoulders and forced her to look at him, hissing, "I frighten you, do I?... I dare say!... Perhaps you think that I have another mask, and that this… this…" He cried out in anger. "—my face is a mask? Well," he snarled, gripping Christine's hands in his iron own and raising them to his face, "tear it off, as you did the other!" And, crying, he pressed her nails against his frightful face, and pulled them slowly downwards, digging the nails into his flesh. Christine screamed again, feeling the blood and flesh collect beneath her fingers.

He released her hands, and, blood and tears streaming down his terrible face. "Why, Christine, why? As long as you thought me handsome, I could have let you leave… and you would have returned! But now—now that you know my hideousness, you would run away for good…!" He paused for a moment, then said, both decisive and despondent, "So I shall have to keep you here! Oh why, Christine, why?" Erik turned and stumbled away from her, his breathing ragged and wracked with sobs.

Christine closed her eyes, crying and shaking uncontrollably. She looked down at his mask, lying useless on the floor, and picked it up. The blood on her hands smeared against its porcelain surface, collecting in minute droplets and refusing to absorb. For what seemed like an eternity, she just sat there, mind awhirl and unthinking.

She shook her head despairingly, trying to compose her thoughts. There was no way she could spend another moment in Erik's presence—he was hideous! Was he even human? And yet… she could never forget the dulcet, resonating tones, soft as a whisper, loud as a clap of thunder…

Erik had seated himself at his organ, his back to her, and began to play, trying to forget the horror of the moment. The music that reached Christine's ears was… intoxicating. It expressed every emotion, every suffering of which mankind is capable. Spellbound, she rose to her feet, never taking her eyes off her Angel. As she approached, he ceased to play and stood up, though he did not turn to face her.

"Erik," she cried, "show me your face without fear! I do not care what you look like—the brilliance of your heart, and your soul, infinitely outshine the darkness of your human appearance!" Erik slowly turned to face her. Christine, in spite of her words, shuddered as she saw his ghastly appearance. But she forced herself to place a delicate kiss on his disfigured cheek. "If I ever again shiver when I look at you," she continued, "it is because I am thinking of the splendor of your genius!" Erik looked shocked. He fell to Christine's feet speaking words of immeasurable love, and kissed the hem of her dress, still crying—these tears, however, were tears of joy.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Fortunately I was spared describing what lay under poor Erik's mask in painful detail, because it was Christine's POV I was writing from. Let me put it this way: when I wrote "there were no words to describe the horror", I was forcibly reminded of one of the retorts in _Monkey Island I_—"Yes there are—you just never learned them." I think that applies here.


	9. The Next Few Days

**Chapter Nine:**

**L'Suvant Peu d'Jours**

The next few days were spent in a haze; Christine and Erik had resumed their lessons, as if nothing had changed. However, Erik seemed to love Christine all the more, for the events of that night… He stayed by her side, even when he wasn't teaching her, and paid her constant little attentions. He reminded Christine of a puppy, eager to please its master. But despite his unwavering forgiveness, Christine immensely regretted ripping off his mask.

Christine's singing flourished under Erik's devout guidance (Erik had insisted that she think of him as "Erik" instead of her "Angel of Music," or as "the Voice"). She pined no longer for the world above, with its painful light and hardhearted people. Erik had not yet consented to allow her to hear the full opera of _Don Juan Triumphant_, but he promised that one day she would hear it. Christine could only wonder at this. She reasoned that, though he loved her, Erik could not yet bear to share with her his life's work. _"I began that work twenty years ago," Erik had said. "I sometimes work at it for fourteen days and nights together, during which I live on music alone, and then I rest for years at a time."_

They had begun to talk about more than music—Christine's childhood, her friends, her dreams… No matter how hard Christine tried to steer the subject towards Erik's life, however, she discovered nothing more about her Angel. Questions gnawed at the back of Christine's mind, ever furiously—where had Erik come from? How had he come to live beneath the Opera Populaire? She had asked Erik if his name pointed to a Scandinavian origin. No, he had replied. He had chosen that name by accident. Then he changed the subject.

Somehow, the conversation had come to Raoul. "So…" Erik had stated cautiously, "this Vicomte de Chagny—you have known him for… many years?"

"Yes," Christine sighed. "He raced into the sea and saved my scarf when I was a little girl—that's how I met him. We became friends, but his family did not approve. But I don't want to talk about him." She was somewhat dreading her return to the world above—she would surely be bombarded with questions as to her whereabouts. And she was not to tell anyone the truth, at Erik's request. She would not have anyway—Raoul would just rush down to the bowels of the opera house and challenge Erik to a duel.

Erik looked pained. "And you have… feelings for him?" He tried to make it sound as if he didn't care. Needless to say, he failed. It didn't help that he added, under his breath, "That ignorant little fool."

Christine couldn't repress a smile. Much as she liked Raoul, it was amusing to see how jealous Erik was of him.

Erik misread her expression. He looked… crushed. And somewhat angry. "You can leave, you know," he spat crossly, turning and crossing the room. "You don't _have_ to stay. If you want to go see your precious Vicomte, then do so!"

"What…?" Christine was confused. "No, I want to stay here."

He turned back to face her. His left eye, from the shadow of his mask, seemed cold and narrowed. "Oh? Then what was that smile, my dear?"

She winced, for his words were sardonic and bitter. "I just thought… that it was funny… You're right—Raoul de Chagny is an ignorant fool." The words stung her tongue, and she regretted the lie. But what was she to say? As sure as she was that Erik loved her, there was still a shadow of fear in their relationship.

Erik smirked. Christine had never seen him _smirk_ before. Snarl, yes—cry, yes—beam in irrepressible joy, yes! But smirk…? It wasn't really an Erik-like expression. And yet, it made him look even more dashing and attractive.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Raoul was going mad with anxiety. Where was Christine? What on earth could have happened to her? On the first day of her disappearance, he had assumed she was sick—though even that did not explain why she had never met him for dinner. On the second day, he had gone to Christine's flat, and asked her guardian, Mme. Valerius. But she would merely say, "She's with the Angel of Music, of course!" And when Raoul had asked where the "Angel" lived, she said, "In Heaven!"

He did not believe that Christine was seriously being taught by the Angel. That story of her father's was only that—a story. And yet, the poor girl seemed to believe in it as fervently as she had so many years ago, when they had been children together. When she had first mentioned that the Angel had visited her, he had thought she was merely attributing her recent triumph of _Faust _to the memory of her father. But it went much deeper than that.

It was obvious that someone—that Man's Voice in her room that night—was taking advantage of her innocent faith. And it worried him greatly, that perhaps this man was responsible for Christine's disappearance.

Raoul had gone to the managers, but they knew nothing about it, and seemed rather annoyed to be bothered about "such a trivial thing". His next step was to alert the police, though he held little faith in their abilities. He had always been taught that, as a de Chagny, the only way to get something done right was to oversee it personally. And the police, he was sure, would not take kindly to such a thing. So he questioned several members of the chorus as well. None of them seemed to know Christine well, and only suggested that perhaps she had been stolen away by the Opera Ghost. Ridiculous.


	10. The Kiss

**Chapter Ten:**

**L'Bise**

It seemed like no time at all before Christine had to return to the surface world. Erik seemed to take it all in stride, saying that it couldn't be avoided—people would begin to worry. Like all good things, she supposed, this one had to come to an end eventually. When she said as much to him, he almost laughed. "Come, Christine," he said with an amused smile, "this is far from the end."

Just before she and Erik reached the surface, she blurted out, "Why do I have to leave? My time spent with you has been… more than just enjoyable!" After a moment, she added, "When will I see you again?" Why did she shudder at the thought of facing the world without her Angel…? It wasn't like she wouldn't see him again, was it? Something about him… _intoxicated_ her. Was this what love felt like…?

Erik had been smirking at a lot of things lately—and this was no exception. But somewhere, behind his carefree guise, she could see there lurked a carefully hidden spark of hope. In his eyes there glistened an inconsolable hunger, a desperate longing… Christine wondered, not for the first time, just how much Erik kept hidden from her. A moment passed before he spoke. "Your Erik will be here, should you ever need him." He paused, searching for the concealed mechanism that controlled the mirror in Christine's dressing room. After successfully locating it, he continued, "I shall be waiting two nights from now, should you be wanting to practice your part for the next opera—_Idomeneo_, I believe it was."

And with that sad farewell, Christine stepped out from the safety of the darkness into the brightness of her dressing room.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Christine gathered up her things and opened the door to the hall. Time to go home. Mamma Valerius would be so worried! And she'd probably have to answer a few questions from the managers as to her disappearance. She sighed. For some reason, her thoughts kept drifting off—behind a trick mirror, down several floors, down to where Erik was… She paused a few feet from the front door of the Opera Populaire, trying to sort out her thoughts.

Raoul stepped out in front of Christine. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "Don't you know how worried I've been? I had the whole city out looking for you! Oh, just wait, Christine—" he heatedly brandished his rapier. He thrust suddenly, slicing the head off an imaginary figure. "Believe me, when I find him…"

Christine felt as if he had punched her in the gut. "_What?"_ Her mind whirled furiously—had Raoul discovered the identity of her Angel? Was Erik in danger?

Raoul chuckled infuriatingly. "The Phantom of course, silly; the one who spirited you away from the tender and"—he struck a pose—"_loving_ circle of my arms." Christine sighed in relief. He was just joking. Hopefully. Christine muttered something about being late, and tried to push past him.

Raoul actually laughed. "Oh no, my sweet, where are you going?" He struck an even more idiotic pose, his chest thrust out, a stupid grin pasted on his face. "Wheresoever thou doth go, fair Christine, I shalt follow, and protectest thee from harm. Thine Phantom shalt trouble thee no longer."

The whole effect was so ridiculous that Christine couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. But at the same time, it was rather disappointing that_ this_ was the best that her would-be suitor could come up with. "Uh, right… sure, Romeo. I mean Raoul." Wait a minute—had he said something about following her everywhere? "Ah, no—please, don't... Raoul, I like you," she said, as nicely as she could, "but… we're not children anymore."

But apparently Raoul didn't know how to take a hint. He decided to "escort her home", all the while spouting obvious hints about how romantic the night was. "Oh, Christine, my darling Little Lotte," he gushed, "thou must be tired—placeth thine arms about my neck, and I shalt carry you home!" He made a pathetic attempt to sweep her off her feet. Ironically, it was Raoul who ended up being "swept off his feet"—he was so busy pursuing Christine that he wasn't watching where he was going, and ended up slipping in a puddle. After picking himself up off of the muddy ground, he seemed to make a connection.

"The Phantom—yes,_ that's_ why you won't submit to your _obvious _attraction to me… He threatened you, didn't he? Of course! Why didn't I realize it before? Oh, darling—nothing will ever keep us apart, Opera Ghost or no." After a moment, he added, "He probably told you that he'd kill me if you continued pressing advances on me. How very noble of you, my love. He's jealous, yes… Well, you needn't worry. No asinine specter will be the death of me!"

Christine gaped at him. "What—Why—You—" She took a deep breath and found her voice. "I am under no sway of the Opera Ghost, Vicomte. And if you knew him, you would not jest so."

"Ah-ha!" he declared, pointing a finger at her prophetically, "The Opera Ghost has poisoned your mind against me! Well, I'll fix _that_." Before Christine could react, Raoul had her around the waist. Within moments, his lips had successfully cornered hers. No matter how much Christine twisted and writhed, she couldn't break free. After a moment of struggling, she resigned herself to her fate.

In fact, Raoul wasn't a bad kisser… Though she hated to admit it, it was a very enjoyable experience.


	11. Ze Anghel

**Chapter Eleven:**

"**Ze Ang-hel"**

The moment Christine arrived home—Raoul had, at last, seen fit to release her—Mamma Valerius swept her into a massive embrace. "Oh, mine child," she cried, "I 'ave missed you so! Zhough I knew you were with ze Ang-hel, It vas very 'ard for an old woman to bear."

"Yes," Christine panted; she told herself that her out-of-breath state was due to Mamma's crushing hug, but it wasn't that at all. She could still feel Raoul's warm, demanding lips against hers, and she knew her cheeks were flushed.

It took a moment for Mamma to notice. "Vat 'as 'appened to you?" she demanded gently, guiding Christine into the small kitchen and setting her down at the table.

"I'm just tired," she lied. "It was a long walk home, and it was dark and I was scared. So I ran."

"Poor child!" Mamma lamented, fetching various plates from the counter and setting them before her charge. "I di' not expec' you 'ome so soon, but zhere is some dinner left."

"Thank you," said Christine. "I expected to stay longer too, but Erik thought—"

The kindly woman turned, eyebrows raised. "Who is zhis 'Erik'?" she asked suspiciously. "I vas thinking you spen' those five days vis ze Ang-hel."

Christine laughed. Had it really been so little a time since she met Erik that she hadn't told Mamma about it? _Of course_, a voice inside her head reminded her. _You only met him five days ago._ Was it only five days? She felt as if a millennium had passed. "Erik _is_ the Angel, Mamma," she explained wearily. It was too complicated. Erik _was_ the Angel of Music, but then, in another sense, he _wasn't_.

"Ze Ang-hel 'as a name? Zhat is strange," Mamma Valerius declared. "But you _'ave_ been vis ze Ang-hel, 'ave you not?"

Suspicions, suspicions… Christine regretted bringing Erik up. But just the same, she filled her guardian in on the events of her adventure under the Opera Populaire, leaving nothing out.

"…And he bade me goodbye and let me return," she finished some time later. Reliving her journey only strengthened her desire to see Erik. Though she had left him mere hours ago, it felt like much longer…

Mamma Valerius sat down heavily. "Goodness me…" she murmured.

Christine realized what she had just done—that is to say, crushed her companion's beliefs… "Oh," she said sadly. "I'm sorry… I shouldn't have said anything—"

Mamma Valerius laughed contentedly. "Dear child, can you not see? Erik _must _be ze Ang-hel! 'E is teaching you about music, yes? And 'e 'as enabled your voice to soar far and beyond zhat of even ze greatest of singers… And 'is ruined face"—Christine winced at these indelicate words—"zust goes to prove zhat 'e is ze Ang-hel; 'is _real_ face must be too 'eavenly and bright for mortals to bear… Or per'aps, since no 'uman is perfect, 'e was burdened vis zhat face, to be able to love a human?" She trailed off into silent speculation.

Mamma Valerius' argument made sense. Not the part about no human being perfect—the first thing she'd said. Something about Erik being her Angel of Music, even if he was human.

It was as though a light had suddenly illuminated something in the shadows of Christine's mind. It didn't matter whether Erik was human or not—he was still her mentor, her companion, her friend… he _was_ her Angel of Music.


	12. Father

**Chapter Twelve:**

**Père**

Christine blew out the burning match. The picture of her father glowed in the new candlelight, situated on a stone memorial that Christine had erected in his honor. "Father," Christine murmured, bowing her head, as if in prayer. "I hope you are proud of me… Since I've met Erik, I've learned much in the art of music. I've been offered a lead role in the next opera we're doing—_Idomeneo_. That's a big step up from being a chorus girl. They want me to be Princess Ilia of Troy." She paused, thinking. "Even though you are no longer here, I feel your presence constantly through the music that Erik and I sing… Every time that I perform, I know that you are watching me, from Heaven, guiding me. It is… much easier dealing with your passing now, because I know that Erik is teaching me just as you would have."

She stepped back and crossed to the window, raising her eyes to the sky, then continued, "Oh, Father," she prayed, "Please be proud of me."

Christine was jolted out of her reverie by a sound from behind. Whirling around, she scanned the darkness fearfully. One candle was certainly not enough to light the whole room—anyone could be in here! What if it was Raoul? She didn't think she was up to facing him yet… A slight smile crossed her features, taking the edge off of her fear. Perhaps seeing him would not be so bad… _But what had made that sound?_

"Good evening, Christine." Erik stepped out of the shadows. He held his mask in one hand, as if certain that Christine would demand that he put it back on. His black attire echoed the sentiments of the unlit shadows; the meager candlelight threw but a faint light on his face. His other hand casually held a lasso. The overall effect was very dashing.

Christine smiled in relief. "You startled me," she accused playfully. It was good to see Erik again. It was also nice to see that he was courageous enough to leave off his mask, even if he _was_ being careful not to step into the light.

Erik gestured towards the shrine that Christine had constructed. "You built your father a new monument?" Christine nodded, and he moved closer to inspect the memorial. Christine could see his face clearly now. Erik continued, "It's… beautiful. When I die, I should hope that someone mourns my passing enough to create one for me… On a different note—about _Idomeneo_. When is the first performance?"

Christine frowned. "I don't remember… a little over a week." How could he talk of such trivial things as opera performances when the two men she cared most about were in this room? Well, granted, her father wasn't exactly there—but if Christine concentrated, she could still hear him whispering words of comfort and encouragement… The other man, of course, was Erik himself, who was absentmindedly humming an aria from _Don Giovanni_, "Il Mio Tesoro".

Christine had never found out anything more about Erik's life, no matter how hard she tried. How was it that he could know so much about her life, but not the other way around?

She stepped towards Erik, fighting to appear casual. "Um, so—how did you come to choose the name 'Erik'? It fits you so perfectly." She hoped that this question would lead to something more substantial—perhaps, where he had actually come from, or what traumatic event had driven him to shun human companionship for that of rats and stone walls. Christine waited with baited breath.

Erik slowly turned to face her, frowning slightly. He seemed to be debating over what to say. "Christine, you would not like to hear the depressing account of my life—if it can even be called such a thing. It would only make your cheerful countenance fade; perhaps your heart shatter and crash to the floor… No, my darling Christine, you do not wish to hear."


	13. Erik's Past

A million thanks to obe (that would be obsessedbyerik, if you want to look her up), who has helped me with countless details on plot, character development, everything! (Oh yeah, and that _big _problem about Christine's reaction to seeing Erik's face.) If you ever need a good critic, she's the one, hands down. (Which is why—if you read every chapter the day I post it—there are a few significant changes that you probably don't know about.) She came up with the _entire_ series of events for this chapter, and believe me, it's amazing! It's no easy feat to combine Erik's past in both the book and the movie and have everything fit. I could never have done it by myself.

**Chapter Thirteen:**

**L'Révolu de Erik**

Christine scowled. How could Erik just leave her in the dark? Surely his life couldn't possibly be as bad as her imagination was making it. She sighed tiredly and tried again. "Erik, how can you expect me to love you, if you hide such things from me? Is there… something in your past that would change how I… how I feel about you?"

Erik looked torn, as if he could not decide whether to enlighten her or not… "Christine, try to understand. My past—my life—has been a living hell since the first moment my mother laid eyes on me. Since the moment I was born, I was condemned…" He gazed off into the distance, his eyes glazed over, as if reliving painful memories. He glanced back at Christine, who was staring at him, eyes pleading. It was his turn to sigh. "As you wish," he murmured. He stepped forward and lightly grasped Christine's arm, guiding her to the stone steps, where they both sat down. "Darling, once I start… please don't stop me. It's… hard to keep going…" Christine nodded.

And so Erik began his tale. "When I was born, my mother was shocked, disgusted by the—the monster in her arms, instead of the son she'd prayed for. My father never saw my face, and my mother, so as not to have to look at me, made a present of my first mask. She only took care of me until I was old enough to be sold to a traveling fair, as—as an addition to their freak show… I was treated no better than a dumb animal, to be used only for hauling in a bigger profit. They barely kept me alive, caged by iron and overcome by the whip. My life there was hell on earth. My only relief was the few conversations I had with a boy slightly older than myself. His name was Nadir Khan. He'd come to talk to me, sometimes, and to bring me food. He was the only one who showed me any kindness…

"For years, I resided in this—this living death, watching the days pass through the bars of my cage, bringing hundreds of people, come to see the 'Devil's Child'. They'd pay to see me; pay to point and laugh… Never would I see even a hint of sorrow, of remorse, of pity… But it seemed that someone was watching over me after all; and they sent an angel, an Angel of Mercy to free me—Antoinette Giry, a ballerina at the Opera Populaire. She freed me one night, and hid me in the cellars below the opera house."

Christine withheld a gasp. Could that possibly be Mme. Giry, the Ballet Mistress? Yes, that made sense! And _that _was how she knew that Christine was taking lessons from Erik—why she had recommended that Christine sing in La Carlotta's place… Christine's deductions were interrupted when she realized that she hadn't been listening to Erik. Cheeks reddening, she focused her attention back on him and proceeded to listen.

"…I spent a year or two down there, hiding, learning the ways of the world under Antoinette's instruction. But then I went off to Persia—"

Christine couldn't help interrupting. "Excuse me, Erik, I'm really sorry—but how did you wind up in Persia, of all places?"

Erik muttered something about the fact that he'd asked her not to interrupt. But he clarified, "Yes, yes, all right—one day, Antoinette introduced me to a group of scholars who were traveling all over Europe. And one of them just happened to be Nadir! _I never did figure out how he managed to be rid of the gypsies_," he added in an undertone, mostly to himself. "I guess he'd had enough and decided to run away, I don't know… No matter—he was very pleased to see that I was alive, and offered to take me with him on their journey. I accepted. His fellow scholars were very understanding about my mask. We traveled to London, to Versailles, to Madrid—everywhere! And all the way they taught me many things; I acquired much skill in music, architecture, designing—I even became an amateur magician." He fingered the intricate stone designs on the steps. "But the music aspect was the most important. I discovered that, in spite of my disfigurements, I had a gift—" He brought his gaze sharply back to Christine's. "I could _sing_." Christine smiled fondly. He certainly could. No matter how good _her_ voice was, she was still very far behind her mentor. It was such a shame that Paris couldn't hear his voice, and realize that looks were somewhat_ less_ that important…

Erik continued, "Finally we reached Persia. Nadir knew the sultana there—don't ask me how, love, I'm not sure—and she'd offered him a position as Chief Daroga for all of Persia." He viewed Christine's vacant expression with a smile. "That's like the chief of police, only much more powerful," he explained patiently. "Nadir introduced me to her, saying that I had 'a voice like an angel'. The sultana demanded that I sing something for her—and so I did. She openly declared that my voice put that of any real angel to shame, and immediately offered me a place in her court. I thought I had finally found my place, my purpose in life. All I wanted was to be accepted, to be needed—can you see that, Christine? So I agreed, and spent the next several years living at the height of Persian luxury. My voice grew, along with my other talents. I discovered the art of ventriloquism, quite by accident, and entertained the little princesses with it.

"I fashioned this"—he gestured towards his Punjab lasso—"to protect me on the streets—there were many who envied my lofty position, dearest, and in those times, I don't blame them. The sultana's rule was very harsh… I became quite accomplished with it; I find it more useful than any arrow or sword…" He paused, and it seemed to Christine that he was remembering a time when he'd been forced to use it. She shuddered, and Erik glanced at her. "Oh, I'm getting off track; pardon me, darling. The sultana had wondered since the moment she first laid eyes on me what lay underneath my mask… Just as you did, my dear." Christine winced and looked down, shamefaced. "No, please Christine—I did not mean to sound hateful. I do not blame you in the least for your curiosity; please, look at me.

"The sultana's curiosity finally overcame her. She stole into my chambers one night, meaning to see the face of her 'pet angel'. When she thought I was asleep, she stripped me of my mask—my protection from the cruelty of the world…" Erik did not meet Christine's eyes. He instead stared pointedly at the floor, his entire form the picture of desolation. "But I was not asleep. I was also not thinking very clearly. In my hands was my lasso, and I caught her with it, intending to make her swear not to tell anyone… But before I could say anything, she fainted. No, Christine, it's all right, listen—I deposited her in front of her rooms, explaining to the guards that she'd had a bit too much to drink. I'd even poured some liquor over her clothes to back up my story. It worked… for a while. The sultana's guards took it as an assassination attempt; or at least a slight on their Queen's honor. They resolved to hunt me down, and see me pay for my treachery.

"It was simple enough to escape the palace—I wasn't known as the 'Trap-Door Lover' for nothing… I had installed several hidden exits and tunnels for emergencies. I contacted Nadir, who agreed to help me. He had a plan—you see, as the sultana's daroga, he was ultimately responsible for ensuring my death. A body was found on the beach, its face warped enough so that it was unrecognizable. Nadir had dressed it in my clothes, so that everyone would think it was me… Fortunately, it worked—I was believed to be dead. But I had to flee Persia. Nadir retired from his kingly post and came with me. For that, I will be forever grateful… We returned to Paris, where Antoinette—who, by that time, had become the Head Ballet Mistress—agreed to let me once again reside at the Opera Populaire." He shrugged. "What can I say, my dear? I saw you for the first time when you were eleven, just after your father died… And all of this followed."

Christine had been fighting back tears for the past few minutes. Poor Erik! He was so talented, so blameless for everything! And yet, his disfigured face had rendered any hope for a normal, decent life impossible. What was it he had said? _"All I wanted was to be accepted…"_ But society would never accept him. Tears flooded in a violent torrent down her cheeks, accompanied by wracked sobs.

Erik frowned in concern. "Christine, what's wrong? I told you that you would not like to hear the story of my life. Please, Christine, don't cry!" He seemed at a loss for what to do. He hesitated, then took Christine in his arms and let her cry into his shoulder, rocking her gently, whispering words of comfort. After a few moments, Christine looked up into his eyes. Erik's smile was less blithe than usual; the fire of longing in his eyes burned brighter than Christine would have thought possible. Slowly, passionately, their lips met. Erik's tender embrace grew slightly tighter and more possessive… Christine's mind was foggy and unthinking. She wished that this moment could last forever.

All of a sudden, they both heard a gasp from the doorway. Christine's head jerked up to see none other than Raoul standing there, mouth open in disbelief. Erik swore. Faster that Christine's eyes could follow, he released her. In the same movement, he belted Raoul over the head with a fist. Raoul crumpled to the stone floor. Erik turned to face Christine. "Run, Christine! When he awakes, there will be hell to pay." And with that, he turned and raced into the shadows, throwing open a trap door and vanishing into the darkness.

Christine needed no further urging. She dashed past Raoul's unconscious form without giving him a second thought, running up several flights of stairs and stone halls. She didn't stop running until she reached the street.


	14. The Confrontation

**Chapter Fourteen:**

**L'Confrontation**

Raoul regained consciousness slowly. When he awoke, he found himself lying prostrate on a cold, stone floor… His head throbbed viciously, as though someone had clubbed him… Raoul couldn't remember where he was, or what had hit him. Raising a hand to his head, he touched it gingerly, and his hand came away covered in blood. He winced and searched his pockets for a handkerchief. Choosing one he did not especially care about, he dabbed the lump on his head and carefully stood. It was dark outside—what time was it? What had hit him? He shrugged. Perhaps he'd slipped and hit his head. In any case, it was probably nothing. But as Raoul turned to leave, something caught his eye—a picture, glowing in the candlelight, which was almost extinguished now; he must have been unconscious for hours. He stepped closer and examined the photograph. It was a picture of Gustav Daae, Christine's father. Then Christine must have been down here…

It all came back to him so fast that he felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. Christine! That monster—the Opera Ghost! He'd had Christine in his arms—kissing her! Poor sweet Christine—! Christine was probably in his clutches right now, while he, Raoul, just stood there…! Raoul cursed and raced out the door, drawing his sword as he went. He'd free Christine if it was the last thing he ever did.

But he stopped a few moments later, realizing that he didn't know where the Phantom lived. _Curses! Poor Christine!_ _Well_, he reasoned, _perhaps Christine is in her dressing room! _He ran the entire way, earning many strange looks from other people in the halls. But when he reached her room, it was empty.

Raoul fought down a surge of panic. Where could she be? _Calm down_, he told himself tersely._ She's probably at home right this minute, safe and sound… _Yes, that seemed like a good course of action. So he altered his course and took a carriage out to Christine's flat.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

There came an impatient knock at the door. Christine rose from her chair and walked over to answer it. Who could this possibly be? She opened the door, and forced back a gasp of shock. It was Raoul! Christine's mind whirled, and out of the depths rose an image of Raoul gasping in horror when he'd found her with Erik… What was she to tell him? At a loss for words, she let the door slip from her hand.

"Christine!" Raoul gasped breathlessly. "Christine, you're alright! I was so worried!" He looked as if he'd just run from the opera house all the way here. Christine continued to stare, unaware of how rude she was being. "Christine," Raoul said curtly, "let me in!" Christine realized that she had been blocking the doorway, and stood aside.

Mamma Valerius looked up sharply. "Monsieur de Chagny! What is the meaning of this?"

"Christine is in danger," Raoul proclaimed loudly.

Mamma Valerius looked shocked. "Christine, what's wrong? Are you alright?"

"Of course I am," Christine snapped irritably.

"No, Madame, she isn't." said Raoul courageously, ignoring Christine's frantic gestures.

"My God!" exclaimed Mamma Valerius. "Christine, what is it?" She was clutching her sewing so hard that it had started to tear.

Raoul struggled for words. Christine supposed that he was remembering the events of the past few hours. She waited with baited breath. What would he say? After a moment, Raoul seemed to regain his composure and declared, "An imposter is abusing her good faith, pretending to be her Angel of Music!" He turned to Christine. "Christine, you must promise me never to see him again, for both our sakes—but yours, especially; he's dangerous!"

Christine whirled on him. "_What do you mean, promise never to see him again?_ I am the mistress of my own actions, Monsieur de Chagny—you have no right to control them! As to what I was… doing—" She fumbled for words. "I don't have to explain anything to you," she declared haughtily. "I can take care of myself. And as for the Angel of Music, that is none of your business either. Please, just go!"

Raoul shook his head sadly. "So you are still under the power of his voice… I was afraid of this. Christine, I shall never leave your side; you need to be protected from that—that monster! I saw him coercing you into his arms, forcing you to kiss his vile lips! _How could he ruin something as beautiful as your lips?_ And his face… why, such a creature deserves nothing but the tip of my blade!"

Christine stared at him, aghast. How could he speak of Erik that way? This was exactly the kind of narrow-mindedness that had condemned Erik to a life of misery in the first place! But she couldn't scream at him in front of Mamma. After all, Mamma trusted Raoul… "Perhaps you say such things," she managed, as calmly as she could, "because you are genuinely mistaken; or perhaps, because you care for me. I could possibly understand if you were jealous of Eri—uh—the Opera Ghost… But what gives you the right to speak such terrible things? For your information, I happen to _love_ that 'vile monster', as you so charmingly put it." Christine couldn't believe she'd just said that. She didn't love Erik, did she? She'd only said that to spite Raoul…

How _did_ she feel about Erik? When she heard his voice, saw the fire in his eyes—she wanted to sing, and to cry; she wanted to curl up and die, yet she wanted to live, and to love; she wanted to caress his beautiful face, to feel the warmth of his arms, and his lips… Was such a feeling—love? She continued to stare at Raoul. Was this what he felt for her? Perhaps all Raoul wanted to do was protect her…

Raoul sighed. "Christine, I can understand that you want to believe in your Angel, more than anything. But that monster is no angel. And he is so close… At any time, he could spirit you away… But"—he drew himself up valiantly—"never fear. I shall never allow such a thing."

Christine was at a loss for words. Who was he to tell her what to do; to condemn her Angel, and to follow her everywhere? She suddenly found that she could bear his painful presence no longer. Raoul gaped in astonishment as Christine stormed from the room.


	15. Joseph Buquet

**Chapter Fifteen:**

**Joseph Buquet**

Christine breathed a sigh of relief. After two days of listening to a constant stream Raoul's chatter, she was free—for the moment, at least. She'd told him that she wanted to powder her nose—then she slipped out the back way into the alley. Christine leaned against a stone wall of the Opera Populaire, wondering how long she'd be able to steer clear of Raoul this time. Hopefully long enough for her to find Mme. Giry, and talk to her…

Ever since Erik had told her about his past, Christine had wanted to speak to Mme. Giry about_ her_ part in it (she wanted to learn more about Nadir, too, but Christine doubted that she'd be able to find him—he'd probably moved back to Persia)… But the time had never seemed right. Perhaps it was because of the fact that Christine was still fairly confused about her feelings towards Erik; she wanted time to think. Or perhaps it was that Raoul hadn't let her out of his sight in forty-eight hours. Even while she slept, Raoul had insisted upon "standing guard" outside her door. Christine was so fed up with it all that she felt like screaming. Erik wasn't out to get her—nor was anyone else, for that matter. What did she need protection for?

At this time of day, Mme. Giry was usually overseeing the ballet practice, on the other side of the opera house… Christine hoped she could get there without being seen by Raoul. Or Erik. Christine didn't exactly know why she didn't want to see _him_—she just… didn't feel like she could act _normally_ around him ever again. The way his arms had tightened around her, the way fire lit his eyes when he looked at her; the way he'd _kissed_ her… And what was worse, the way she'd kissed him back.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Christine peered around the corner apprehensively. Good—no one in sight, except a few members of the stage crew and some of the more dubious members of the chorus. They were hanging around the opposite end of the corridor, drinking and laughing loudly. Christine recognized one of them—the loudest and most obnoxious, by far—as Joseph Buquet. She'd never liked him much; for every ounce of work that he did, he downed three bottles of some vile, alcoholic substance, shouting and causing trouble all the while. Many a chorus girl had fallen prey to his drunken lust…

They were talking so loudly that Christine couldn't help overhearing pieces of their conversation. Joseph Buquet was talking. "…an' 'e comes up to me an' says—'Joseph, 'ave you been playin' wi' my girl?' An' I says to 'im 'Well what if I 'ave?' And 'e threatens to sic the Opera Ghost on me, see. An' I says, ''Ave you even _seen_ the Opera Ghost?' O' course, 'e says no, so I tell 'im 'Then that's a pretty worthless threat then, ain't it?' An' then I belted 'im one, good 'n proper."

"What did you do after that?" asked someone.

"I went righ' back to kissin' 'is girl, o' course."

This statement was met by much laughter and scattered applause. "Well, Joseph," demanded one man, "if'n you're so smart, wha'_ does_ the Opera Ghost look like?"

The grin on Joseph Buquet's face was ghoulish and unpleasant. "'Is skin's like… yellow parchment. A great black 'ole serves as the nose that"—he shook his head and finished callously—"never grew." Rage welled up in the bottom of Christine's chest, boiling; higher and higher it rose, as Joseph Buquet continued with his speech about Erik. Buquet turned to the chorus girls and brandished a fake lasso. "You mus' be always on your guard," he cautioned them with a malicious laugh, "or 'e will catch you wi' 'is magical lasso." He roped one of the girls and pretended to attack her.

Christine could not hold back a snarl of fury. How could that man—that _monster_—spread such lies, such cruelty! And from a man that had never even laid eyes on the Opera Ghost. Christine's anger overtook her common-sense. She found herself striding towards Buquet, teeth bared like a wild animal.

When she reached him, he turned around to leer at her. "Wha's this, then? Come to 'ear the story, wench?"

Christine struck him across the face just as hard as she could. "Shut up, just shut up! You know nothing of the Opera Ghost," Christine snarled condescendingly. "He isn't the monster—you are!"

Joseph Buquet was stunned—but only for a moment. "Looks like you could use a few lessons in manners, wench." He advanced slowly, the lasso held ready in one hand. The other members of the stage crew did nothing; from the twisted smirks on their faces, they knew what was coming and wanted to see Joseph have his way with her.

Christine stepped backwards, now regretting her outburst. No—she was glad she'd set Buquet straight. It was the _repercussions_ of her actions that she regretted. There would be no escape for her now. Joseph Buquet grinned licentiously and reached for her. _Erik_, Christine thought wildly, _where are you? _

But it was not Erik that came to her rescue. In the midst of all the tension, no one had seen Mme. Giry approach. She stepped between Christine and Buquet, glaring at him angrily. Buquet visibly backed down. Mme. Giry spoke. "Those who speak of what they know, find too late that prudent silence is wise… Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue!" She took the lasso from him and threw it about his neck. She tightened it ruthlessly, saying, "Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!"


	16. Antoinette's Tale

**Chapter Sixteen:**

**L'Récit de Mme. Giry**

Christine, seated in one of the chairs in Mme. Giry's rooms, breathed a sigh of relief and accepted the cup of hot chocolate being offered to her. "Thank you," she murmured, taking a sip. "And thank you for rescuing me from—from that Joseph Buquet…" She shuddered, thinking of what he would have done to her. _And to think_, she half-smiled, _the _one_ time that Raoul could have come in handy, I'd given him the slip... _And where had Erik been? Of course, he would've probably used his Punjab lasso on Buquet—not that Christine much cared if the evil that was Joseph Buquet was erased from the future of the opera house.

Christine hated herself for thinking that. No one—not even Joseph Buquet—deserved to die like that. She turned her attention to Mme. Giry, who was talking.

"…dear, I'm so sorry that Buquet—well… That_ that_ had to happen… Now, what were you doing down here—did you come to see someone?"

Could she mean Erik? How much _did _Mme. Giry know about her relationship with Erik? "I came to see you—you see, Erik was telling me about his past… And I was wondering—"

"What part I had in it?" Mme. Giry finished. A frown creased her brow, but it was gone so fast that Christine decided she must have imagined it. "Yes… I wondered how long it would be before you asked him about his… grievous past." She paused, undoubtedly revisiting old memories. After a moment, she shook her head and continued, "Well, what do you want to know?"

Christine shrugged. "Everything. How did you help Erik to escape from the gypsies? How did you keep him hidden for all those years? And how does he _live_ down there—I know he gets some allowance from the managers, but still!" After a pause, she asked, "How did Nadir escape from the gypsies, and how did he know the sultana? …Of course," she added, "you probably don't know Nadir very well, do you?"

Mme. Giry laughed. "Nadir, come in here!" she called into the next room.

In answer to her call, a middle-aged man appeared in the doorway. His skin was a dark mahogany, and his garb suggested that of a wealthy noble of India. His glittering eyes made the jewels round his neck and hanging from his ears seem dull by comparison. "Christine Daae," he nodded politely. "How do you do?"

How did he know who she was? Christine's confusion must have been evident on her face, for Mme. Giry explained, "I've been telling him about your lessons with Erik."

Christine frowned. "Does Erik tell you… everything?" She suddenly felt rather uncomfortable. Had Erik told them about what Christine had confided in him about her past, her life? Had he told them how she felt about him—or how he thought she felt about him? About how they'd kissed?

Nadir laughed. "Erik barely says anything, to her or to me. He communicates with us when he has to, no more. Erik never was one for pleasantries." He smiled. "He preferred to be left alone." Christine nodded. That only made sense, seeing how the human race had treated him. Nadir crossed over to them and sat down in the chair next to Christine. "What would you like to know?"

Christine frowned slightly, pondering her reply. The fire in the hearth crackled merrily, keeping the room cozy and warm. It was very cold outside, for November. She decided on, "How did Erik escape from the gypsies?"

It was Mme. Giry who answered. "I was very young; it was back when I was studying to be a ballerina… The traveling fair came to Paris, and my whole troupe went to see it." She laughed bitterly. "I was repulsed by what I found there. People—the gypsies—showing off their warped, grotesque bodies—one man could pull his eyelids completely off of his eyes—and others pretending too see the future, and to summon spirits… And then there was a tent, displaying a sign 'The Devil's Child' on it… I went inside, along with everyone else—they were all laughing and screaming, fighting to see the poor child… Needless to say, it was Erik. They had locked him in a cage, like an animal, ready for display. He had a cloth bag over his head, which some cruel man—his master, I assume—removed, much to the delight of the jeering crowd. The man had a whip, and viciously beat him, stopping only when the blood flowing down Erik's back was severe enough to threaten death. Everyone laughed, and laughed, and laughed… But I did nothing; I just… hung back. I felt much pity and compassion for this boy, and yet fear of the gypsies filled me with cowardice. I did nothing but watch… Finally the mulling crowd grew tired of their sport and left—at last, only I remained. But I, too, turned to leave, to abandon him to his fate!" Mme. Giry raised her hands to her face, on the verge of tears. "I cannot tell you… how much I regret it now."


	17. Nadir's Tale

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Le Récit de Nadir**

"But you didn't abandon him," Christine interjected. "You rescued him!"

Mme. Giry nodded. "Yes, I did… You see, as I was leaving the tent, I glanced back and saw that Erik had a rope in his hands, and was silently strangling his callous master. The man fell to the floor—dead, as far as I could see. I just stared at Erik, too terrified for words—he stared back, unmoving. But it was not long before someone entered the tent and noticed that the man was dead. Well, you can imagine—mass panic, and anger; they were after blood. I could not just leave Erik to die like that! So I took his hand and led him to the opera house, where I hid him from the world and its cruelties. He only stayed a few years, however; then Nadir offered to take him to Persia."

At a nod from Mme. Giry, Nadir picked up the tale. "Before I begin, there are certain facts that you must be made aware of. Erik told you, of course, that I worked for the gypsies for a time?" Christine nodded. "But he probably didn't tell you what I was doing there. You see, I was born in Mazenderan, one of the great empires of Persia, where my father was the sultan's confidant—which is why, incidentally, I knew the sultana, in answer to your question. My mother was a fortune teller in the traveling fair that Erik would later come to reside in, and as a child I lived with my father… I was a playmate to the little sultana. I later went to live with my mother, and was a hand for the traveling fair. It was not long before I saw 'the Devil's Child'… My father had always taught me that looks mattered for naught. I believed in that, and felt a kind of empathy towards Erik… I wanted—no, needed—to watch over him, to protect him as best I could. We became friends, and I used every means available to me to make his miserable life more bearable."

Christine interrupted. "Why didn't you help him to escape?" God, what kind of craven friend was this Persian?

Nadir's eyes grew sad. "I tried… and I failed. One night, soon after I had begun working for the gypsies, I decided to spirit Erik away to Persia. He could live with me, and live the way life was _meant _to be lived. I slipped into his tent one night—he was not kept in a cage in those days—and cut his bonds. But no sooner had we slipped out of the camp than they discovered him missing and hunted us down. The gypsies could not afford to loose their main attraction; they—they decided to ensure that it would not happen again. But instead of punishing me—as they should have—they instead took it out on Erik." There were tears in his eyes now. "They chained him to a tent post, and brought out the whip… I was made to watch, for hours, while Erik—poor innocent Erik!—was beaten far past recovery. They only stopped when they were close to killing him—indeed, I feared they had. 'Never attempt to steal the monster from us again,' they said, 'or we _will_ kill him, slowly and painfully.' From then on, they kept him locked in an iron cage, guarded at all times.

"Though Erik did not blame me for—for the gypsies' actions, I hated myself for it. I dared not so rashly endanger Erik's life again." He sighed. "I understand what you must think of me, Mlle. Daaé—I let Erik suffer! Most of his life was spent languishing in the gypsies' prison. Surely even a slow death was preferable to that…" Christine was startled to see tears silently running down his cheeks; she glanced over at Mme. Giry, who was close to tears as well—though she had heard probably this painful part of the story before.

Nadir regained his composure and continued. "Then, on one of our yearly trips to Paris, something terrible happened—or so I thought. I entered the tent in which Erik was routinely displayed—to find him gone, and his master dead. A mob went after Erik, and I mourned him as dead. For how could a boy, innocent and unknowing, have a chance of survival in this cruel world? I hated myself for not looking after him as well as I should have… I cursed the gypsies, who had brought so much pain on so innocent a child. There was no reason for me to stay with the traveling fair, as I thought Erik was dead—my mother had passed away some time ago. I decided to leave, and return to my beloved Persia, back to the life I had first known… But the gypsies would not allow me to leave. They remembered, and suspected that I had helped him escape.

"They locked me in Erik's cage and prepared a slow death for me—but they never got a chance to exact it. I had found the rope that Erik had used to strangle his master. I—I used it myself, on the unfortunate man who was guarding me. It was simple enough to slip out into the crowds of Paris, to disappear into the shadows… I had stolen enough coin from the gypsies to pay for passage back to Persia. I remained there for a while, basking in the sultana's attentions—for she still considered me a playfellow to her."

Nadir paused. "That, I think, is enough of my past for you to understand my position. Now—when I entered the Opera Populaire that day, it was with the intention of speaking with the manager about the themes of his operas; I was traveling with a group of scholars at the time, one of which was conducting research about the human mind—he had asked me to find out what kind of performances interested the most people. I met Antoinette"—he gestured to Mme. Giry—"and we quickly became friends. I resided in Paris for a short while, during which time we got to know each other a little better. I related my past to Antoinette, who was deeply interested in Erik. She led me down past the cellars of the opera house, where I received the greatest shock of my life. Erik was alive! So happy I was that I ran to him and embraced him as the long-lost brother that he was. The three of us talked late into the night, where I discovered how Erik had escaped from the gypsies. But when it came time for me to leave, I found that I could not abandon him… I offered to take him with me to Persia. How overjoyed I was when he said yes!

"The scholars accepted him without question—for the most part, I think, because the sultana—who was the queen of Mazenderan by that time—was only funding their expedition across Europe due to my presence. She had previously made me her first Daroga, did I mention that? No matter… We traveled everywhere, and Erik learned much about life from my companions and I. They taught him in many areas, both useful and obscure. He loved the opera; we stopped in many cities just to see them. It was so touching to see the tears running down his cheeks as he applauded at the end of _Carmen_, or _Polyeucte_… In fact, that's how he discovered his beautiful voice, one night in Venice, whilst relating a song sung by one of the stars of _Ravenna_…

"When we reached Persia, the sultana was very interested in Erik. I told her of his heavenly voice, and requested that he be allowed to remain with me. She considered it, and commanded that she hear his voice. Erik sang so beautifully! The sultana was spellbound, and ordered that Erik was to stay by her side, and shower her with the 'divine music of heaven'. And so he lived quite happily for several years—at least, until the sultana… Well, she was very proud of 'her Angel' and wanted to see his face. I remember it quite well…

"She asked me if I'd seen his face. 'Yes,' I'd replied, unaware of the consequences. 'Well then,' she declared, 'if a Daroga can see his face, then a sultana certainly can!' I pleaded with her, implored her to forget the whole matter. But it was no use. She ordered me to remove Erik's mask. I refused—'It would be just like the gypsies,' I argued. 'Erik's life has been hell since birth and he deserves to be left in peace.' But she did not agree. I do not know exactly what happened after that, but apparently she attempted to remove his mask herself; Erik attacked her—the guard took it as a failed assassination. He was a fugitive from justice. I'm not sure how he escaped the palace… But he'd acquired somewhat of a name for himself as the 'Trap-Door Lover'—I'm sure that had something to do with it.

"Erik contacted me, and I devised a plan to help him escape. I staged his death, and helped him to flee from Persia. I accompanied him; the sultana was not pleased with me, as I had refused to obey her orders… Besides, I could not leave Erik! By that time, I felt more responsible for his life and happiness than I did my own.

"We returned to Paris, and Antoinette consented to hide him in the Opera Populaire once more. I currently reside in a flat not far south of here, where the sultana sends me a monthly pension; she has not forgotten the years we spent together, as friends." Nadir rubbed his temples tiredly. "Does that answer all of your questions, Mlle. Daaé?"

Christine shrugged. "All the ones that you could give me the answers to, thank you Monsieur." She yawned. "It's getting rather late—I think I should retire; thank you for your hospitality, Mme. Giry." She stood and began to leave the room. But she paused after a moment and asked, "I do not mean to pry, Monsieur, but how is it that you just happened to be here when I came to call?"

Nadir shifted guiltily, giving the impression of someone who is about to tell a ridiculous lie. But a moment later he seemed perfectly relaxed, and Christine reasoned that it was just the shadows of the dim firelight. "Just a friendly visit, Mlle. Daaé. Nothing more. I wished to catch up on old times."

Christine accepted this answer without question. It made sense, did it not? Besides, it was not her place to ask such things. But just the same, Nadir has seemed so… hesitant to tell her why he had come. But just the same, she bade them good night and left Mme. Giry's rooms.

After she had left, Antoinette Giry said sharply, "What if she had not believed you? 'Catch up on old times'?" Her laugh was cold. "Hardly."

Nadir looked up uncomfortably. "I had to tell her _something_. We couldn't tell her—well, you know…" He trailed off. "I am as genuinely concerned about her relationship with Erik, as you are—he has become obsessed with her! I went down to see him earlier; when I accused him of carrying her off and locking her up, he retorted: 'I have every right to see her in my own house. I am loved for my own sake'."

"I know," Antoinette moaned. "I tried to reason with him about Christine, but he just won't listen! The odds are one in a million that they'll end up together! Christine Daaé, I think, loves the Vicomte de Chagny… Poor Erik," she sighed. "She'll break his heart."


	18. Carlotta's Fettish

**Chapter Eighteen**

**L'****Chaînes de La Carlotta**

Raoul had been trying without success to control his anger. This whole day had just been a succession of disasters! First Christine had disappeared—she was probably in the phantom's clutches right now!—and then Mlle. Carlotta, the Opera Populaire's lead soprano, had decided to voice her opinion of "dat Miss Daaé". And while he stood here and defended Christine's honor—as any gentleman would have—Christine was alone in the opera house! Protection-less, all alone; probably wondering where her Raoul had run off to…

He turned his attention back to Mlle. Carlotta, who had been squawking at him for the past few minutes. "Dat Christine Daae es being like mud on da bottom of my shoes," spat Carlotta, finishing this statement with several curses in her native Spanish. "I am not knowing 'oo it was dat was giving 'er my part, but when I find dem, dey will be wishing dat dey 'ad never been born!"

Raoul immediately came to Christine's defense, although he was careful not to impugn Carlotta's own honor—his de Chagny breeding would not permit him to. "Milady, Christine is no such thing! She sings like… like a beautiful dove! Her skin is flawless alabaster, her eyes shine like—like exploding stars!" An image of Christine floated to the top of his mind, causing him to pause in awe and reverence of her beauty and splendor. He knew that his descriptions of her beauty did not do her justice in the least... A few moments later, the impatient tapping of Carlotta's foot brought him back to the present state of affairs. "Oh yes—and I would thank you not to say such foul things about her in my presence," he continued.

Much to Raoul's annoyance, she loosed a piercing shriek of laughter that could be heard throughout the opera house. "And 'oo are you, to be defending 'er so? 'Er lover?" She snorted. "Usted es muy guapo y rico—demasiado por _ella_." Carlotta batted her over-large eyelashes at him.

Raoul started. And not just because he knew enough Spanish to understand what she had said. Her very posture implied… Was she—flirting with him? _Well_, he thought excitedly, _perhaps Christine will see this as a testimony of my love—I will not give in to Carlotta's temptations._ "As a matter of fact," he boasted pompously, "I _am_ her lover." Well, it was not exactly true; but Christine's current infatuation with that monster—just a feeble deception on the monster's part, Raoul knew—would not last long.

Carlotta laughed again. "Ou' of all da girls in Paris, you 'ad to pick dat one? _Christine Daae__ es__ una don nadie! Y ella canta como mierda! _She cannot 'old a match to da beau'y tha' es my voice." Raoul noticed with irritation the extended flourish with which she rolled her r's.

"How dare you say such wicked things about my darling Christine?" Raoul demanded, momentarily losing his control. He could feel the battle raging between his anger and his upper-class breeding. "Madam," he managed through gritted teeth, "get thee gone, before I lose restraint over my temper."

This only brought more peals of laughter from Carlotta. "My dear Vicomte, 'oo deserve someding better dan a mere chorus girl! 'Oo deserve… someone like me." She was much closer now; Raoul could feel her hot Spanish breath on his face.

"Ah—my dear Diva, I must be leaving…" Raoul interjected as politely as he could.

Carlotta's eyes widened as she saw someone behind Raoul. "Aaah, my Piangi!" She cooed playfully.

Piangi appeared by Carlotta's side. Raoul breathed a sigh of relief. Now that La Carlotta was concentrating on _him_, Raoul was free to leave. "Darling Carlotta," Piangi gushed, kissing the diva's hand. "My goddess, my Venus, my _charmuse_—is this man bothering you?" He cast a sullen look at Raoul.

Carlotta giggled girlishly. "No, mi amor." Raoul was far from disgusted—was _this_ why Christine was in love with that _creature_? Did _he_ flatter her so?

Raoul listened with fascination. "My lady fair," Piangi continued, "yours is the face that launched a thousand ships; you are an enchantress! Your resplendent lips, your magnificent eyes! Your bodily grace and splendor are too heavenly to behold, my Helen…"

Carlotta looked confused. Raoul noted with a smirk of superiority that she did not know who Helen of Troy was. But just the same, Carlotta smiled radiantly and allowed Piangi to carry on.

As Piangi escorted an enamored Carlotta down the hall, Raoul made a mental note of the words Piangi had used for future reference.

Now—to find Christine. As Raoul sprinted down the corridor, he prayed that she was all right.


	19. Erik's Reaction

**Chapter Nineteen:**

**L'Réaction de Erik**

As soon as Christine left Mme. Giry and Nadir, she headed down the hall towards her dressing room. She had to speak with Erik. Mme. Giry would probably tell him about Buquet, and what had happened. Christine feared that Erik would… well… avenge her. By killing Buquet. And Christine didn't want that. It wasn't that she cared if Buquet died—honestly, the corridors would be much less perilous without him. But Christine couldn't bear the thought of Erik killing anyone, especially for her.

She started walking faster and faster, unable to control the increasing speed of her steps. Soon she was running outright, and had to force herself to slow down. It was very fortunate that she met no one along the way, for they surely would have questioned to her as to why she was running, and as to the frightened expression on her face.

She reached her dressing room without incident, although she'd heard a scream of mirth—Carlotta, probably—echo through the halls. She stopped in front of the floor-length trick mirror, breathing hard. "Erik?" she managed, in between gasps of air. "Erik, where are you?"

Silence.

"Erik? …Erik! Please, I have to talk to you!"

Still nothing.

_Oh God_, she thought, _what if Mme. Giry has already told him, and he's off hunting for Buquet right now? _She whirled around and unlocked her door. Ridiculous as it seemed, she had to warn Buquet. But she couldn't tell him about Erik! What could she do?

A noise behind her jolted her out of her dilemma. The mirror had disappeared, and Erik was standing there, looking very concerned and bewildered. "What's wrong, Christine?"

"Erik!" Christine shouted in joy, closing and re-locking the door. She ran to him and threw her arms about him. "Don't do it! Please! You can't kill him!"

Erik held her for a moment, then realized exactly what she had said. He detached her arms from himself and held her at arms-length. He looked rather shocked to see that she was crying. "What are you talking about? Kill who? Oh, you mean that stupid de Chagny boy? I wasn't planning on killing him… just yet." Christine looked up, shocked. The sparkle in his eyes told her that he was joking.

But Christine had no time to laugh. "No, not him—Buquet!"

"Who's that? Isn't he one of those drunk stagehands? …Why would I want to kill him?" he asked suspiciously.

Christine breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't know. Yet. She'd better tell him before he heard it from someone else. "Well, Buquet… kind of… was going to… uh…" She took a breath and said really fast, "He was saying stuff about you, and I screamed at him and then he was going to 'teach me a lesson'—and then Mme. Giry saved me, so there's nothing for you to get mad about."

Erik still looked rather confused. "Wait a second… are you saying that this Buquet person was going to hurt you? …Or force himself on you?" He definitely looked angry now. "And you _don't_ want me to defend you? To make sure that he doesn't do this again?" Christine shook her head vehemently. Erik looked furious. "I'm truly sorry, darling, but you should not have to be haunted every day by the threat of this… this man. I'll be back."

Christine noticed for the first time that he had his Punjab lasso in hand. He walked past her and made for the door. "No!" she cried. "I can't let you kill someone for my sake! Punish him, by all means humiliate him, but please don't kill him! Get him fired! …I wouldn't be able to bear the thought that you had taken a man's life… for me."

For a moment, Erik looked torn between obeying Christine and protecting her. He sighed, looking very annoyed. "Fine," he said. "I won't kill him. I'll just get him fired, all right? I will respect your wishes… but I think you're making a mistake."

An awkward silence closed over the room, both heavy and uncomfortable. Christine could find nothing to say. The feeling of intense longing that had been weighing on her for days had only been amplified by Erik's presence. But she couldn't tell him that. He hadn't said much of anything since they had first kissed—when Raoul had caught them. Did he… _regret_ kissing her?

She stepped closer, not knowing exactly what she was going to say, or do. For a moment they just started into each other's eyes; his were afire with lust, and desire. Then they were in each other's arms. Erik's lips met hers with a passion, a ferocity that drove the breath from her lungs. As flaming passion engulfed her; she gave herself to him without a second thought—her heart, her mind, her soul. Her passion, her pain, her fears—they were his also. She felt completely bare within the circle of his arms.

Christine's heart beat rapidly within her chest, a thundering of emotion coursed through her. Erik's soul surrounded her, whispering lovingly to her soul. She felt completely bare in his arms. Her soul intertwined with his, creating such bliss that she had never before experienced. A second heart beat along with her own. The rise and fall of Erik's own heart kept pace with the drum inside of her body. Christine enjoyed a brief moment of pure ecstasy. Their bodies seemed to breathe, to even live at the exact same rate. Their souls traded silent secrets neither would ever speak to another human being and a blossoming longing and lust appeared within the core of her being.

How she wished the moment could last forever, this one moment locked in his fiery embrace, while all thoughts of the Opera and Raoul simply floated lazily away. For the first time in a long while, she was content. More then content: she was a fire.

Erik's lips left hers, but she did not want it to stop. She would not let it stop. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again. Her eyes were closed, but a blinding white light seemed to be blazing through them, the fires of love.

The feel of his lips on hers, his skin beneath her fingers, the sting of his enigmatic striking figure, it all took her to a world where thought and feeling slipped away and she was left with nothing but a love she never knew she had. A love she vowed to never let go.


	20. In Danger Once More

**Chapter Twenty:**

**Revinit en Péril**

Christine had backed into a corner. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. And Buquet knew it. He laughed and brandished a bottle of rum at her. "What are you goin' to do now, missy? There ain't no Mme. Giry to save you this time… I think first I'll pay you back for that ou'burst yesterday"—he cracked his knuckles menacingly—"an' then we can get on to the fun part, eh? Wha' say you to that?"

Christine didn't bother answering him. Instead, she opened her mouth and screamed, long and loud.

Buquet's drunken laughter continued long after Christine had run out of breath. "No one's comin', pet. They're all down a' the managers' office. 'Parently somethin' 'appened wi' th' Opera Ghost… Anyways, le's not let tha' spoil our fun." He stepped towards her, and viciously backhanded her across the face. Christine screamed again—and then he clamped a hand round her throat. His vile breath was overwhelming, filling her mouth, her lungs, choking her.

He brought her closer to him and slovenly kissed her neck. Christine tried to strike him, to claw his face, but to no avail. Buquet, though he didn't spend much time doing anything but drinking, was strong. _Probably from beating helpless chorus girls_, Christine thought. No matter how she struggled, Buquet's grip did not loosen.

"No' so 'igh an' migh'y now, are yeh?" he laughed maliciously. With his free hand, he began to unlace her bodice.

"What's going on here?" demanded a haughty voice. It was Raoul! Christine was never so glad to see him in her life. "Christine!" Raoul gasped. "Sir, I demand that you release her at once!"

Buquet eyed Raoul contemptuously. "Yer tha' de Chagny tha's fundin' the Opera Populaire… Jus' as big an' 'igh falutin' as you please." He relinquished his hold on Christine. "Wha' ever yeh say, your Majesty," Buquet spat mockingly. He slunk off down the corridor, glancing back every so often to make sure that Raoul wasn't going to run him through.

Raoul didn't look too far from doing so. He was fingering the hilt of his sword, his eyes twin blazes of fire. Only after Buquet was out of sight did he turn to Christine. "Oh darling, did he hurt you?"

Christine felt the bruise on her cheek and winced. "Not too bad… Um… thanks for rescuing me." She finished retying her bodice and began to walk past him—she wanted to see what had " 'appened wi' th' Opera Ghost".

But Raoul blocked her path. "You are most welcome,_ mon_ _precieuse_! Please allow me to escort you wherever it is that you are going." He did not wait for an answer, but instead took Christine's hand and kissed it. This would be a good time to try out Piangi's adulation… "Christine—your splendor, your magnificence hast captured mine soul! Thou art my goddess, mine lady fair, my _belle tournure_! Thou art as fair as the rose in May; yours is the face that launch'd a thousand ships…" Surely Christine would react as Carlotta had—giggle and fall into his arms…

But that was not what transpired. Christine, instead, frowned and walked faster. "Thanks, but could you let go of my hand?" She _was_ blushing, but that was the extent of her favorable reaction.

Raoul was slightly annoyed. This was not what was supposed to happen. But of course, Carlotta was a little short on intellect… She didn't understand half the things that Piangi said to her. He would have to try harder to win Christine. And perhaps the Shakespearean was a bit much. But it _did_ sound more romantic. "But please, darling, allow me to finish! I am _awestruck_ by thine beauty, thine curvaceous grandeur! Thine resplendent and divine grace hast imprisoned mine soul. Thou art more beautiful than Venus, than Helen of Troy!" He hoped that Christine knew who she was. "You deserve someone rich, someone who will'st wait on thy hand and foot for the rest of your days!"

What he couldn't possibly know is that Christine was not thinking about him at all. She was remembering a time not so long ago when Erik had stayed by her side, even when he wasn't teaching her, paying her endless attentions... But she knew that Raoul wasn't talking about Erik.

"You deserve… someone like me!" Raoul gushed. He struck a valiant pose and waited for Christine to agree.

For a moment, no answer came. Raoul glanced at Christine, and was surprised to see an ambivalent look on her face. "Yes, Raoul," she said sympathetically. "But we are not meant for each other."

Raoul felt like beating his head against the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid! This was _not _working… But wait! _Of course_—Christine was mad because he had just allowed that disgusting man—Buquet, or whatever his name was—to walk away unscathed. Yes, that had to be it! "I forgive your hurtful remark, Christine," he said generously. "I understand now what must be bothering you. Come, let us go at once and see that Buquet is fired!"

"Fine," Christine sighed. "Go, get him thrown out. At least I won't have to worry about him anymore… I'm late for—ah—a singing lesson. Yeah. And I'd better hurry. See you later."

Raoul watched as Christine hurried off. _That darling child, so worried about her career._ Though it was rather annoying that she gave the impression of… not enjoying his presence. Very annoying. Why was she playing coy? Did she take pleasure in watching him flounder? He mentally shrugged. It was probably just the influence of that—that deformed _monster_. Another reason for Raoul to go talk to the managers. Oh yes—he had to get Buquet fired. _Ha_, he thought to himself. _Something _I_ can do that this "Angel of Music" can't. _I_ have influence with the managers._ Raoul raced off to the managers' office.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

When Raoul reached their office, he was surprised to see a small crowd of people there, talking frantically. Whatever could the matter be? He pushed his way through the clamoring mass and reached MM. Andre and Firmin.

"Gentlemen," he said chivalrously, "What is the matter?"

Andre scowled and brandished a letter. It had an evil-looking skull seal on it. "This is from the Opera Ghost."

"Oh," Raoul said impatiently. "That's too bad. But I need to talk to you about a certain stagehand named Buquet."

"Joseph Buquet?"

"Yes. I just now caught him attacking my—er—Mlle. Daaé. I demand that he be immediately removed from the Opera Populaire."

The managers exchanged a look. "We appreciate your concern, Monsieur," Andre said cautiously. "And we are full aware that you are sponsoring this opera house immensely… But we cannot just go around firing stagehands."

"Yes," Firmin agreed, business-like. "From what I've heard, this Buquet is a good worker. He does perhaps down a bottle or two every once in a while, but nonetheless…"

Raoul couldn't believe this. "But this man just tried to defile a Diva!"

"La Carlotta is the Diva of this opera house, thank you very much. Although Mlle. Daaé does have a beautiful voice."

"Then fire him!"

Andre looked aggravated. "We'd be playing right into his hands."

"Whose? Buquet's?"

"No, the Opera Ghost's. That's what this letter is about." He handed the note to Raoul. Raoul read:

_Gentlemen,_

_It has come to my attention that you have in your employ a stagehand by the name of Joseph Buquet. It has also come to my attention that on the twelfth of this month he attempted to assault Christine Daaé, the most valuable singer that the Opera Populaire possesses. __My anonymous sources have reasoned with me to leave him alive__, and so I have complied. I instead request that he be relieved of his job and be turned from the opera house. _

_I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, _

_O.G._

The twelfth? That was yesterday. What had happened yesterday? Had Buquet attacked Christine then too? And she didn't tell him? Raoul was furious. How was he to protect Christine, to prove his love, if she didn't tell him about such things? But of _course_, she told the Opera Ghost. And she pleaded with him to leave Buquet alive? This was ridiculous! It was up to _Raoul_, as the financier of the Opera Populaire, to decide what happened to Buquet. Who did this phantom think he was? But then he realized—of course it was all a lie. Christine _would _have told him if this had really happened.

As Raoul handed back the letter, Firmin spoke up. "Sir, is Miss Daae all right? Has Buquet done anything… serious?"

"No," Raoul muttered. "Not that he didn't try. Speaking of Christine, I believe I should be returning to her." There was no telling what dreadful fate would befall her if he was not around to protect her—now that there was not just the phantom to contend with. "Good day, gentlemen." He turned on his heel and exited the office.


	21. Kidnapped

**Chapter Twenty One:**

**Enlévement**

After some time had elapsed of dire and hurried searching, Raoul had found Christine once more. By the time he had spotted the young soprano, he had reached a state of hysterics, but calmed at the sight of her gorgeous visage. She was talking to Meg Giry, one of the other chorus girls. He raced up to Christine and took her hand anxiously. "Christine," he gasped, out of breath. "Are you all right? Where have you been?"

Christine looked rather annoyed to see him. "I've been… around. Oh—Meg, couldn't you leave us alone for a moment?" Meg walked off, looking suspicious. After a moment Christine turned her attention back to Raoul. "Why are you breathing so hard? Have you been running?"

"I cannot bear the thought of you in danger any longer, always in that monster's clutches!" Raoul glanced over his shoulder to make sure _it_ wasn't listening. "So I've decided to offer you a room in my house, away from here. It will be a nice break from opera-life, I should say. And that thing won't be able to touch you."

"What?" Christine gasped, turning pale. "Take me from the Opera Populaire? How will I be able to perform?"

But Raoul had made up his mind. "You must come away with me!" he insisted. "To my mansion. You will be safe from_ him_ there."

Christine could not believe her ears. "But I could never leave E—uh—_Mamma Valerius_. She is dreadfully ill, you know." (Not a lie, she told herself, just a slight exaggeration—she _was_ rather ill, and Christine was indeed somewhat worried about her.) She tried to push past him.

Raoul grabbed her arm, not as gentle as he could have been. "Christine, don't fret—Mamma Valerius can come too. I can get her the best medical attention in Paris." Why did she not look happy about this? "Darling, I know you're scared. But I will not let that monster, that horror lay hold of you—never fear!" Now Christine looked scared. Her eyes flitted across the shadows behind him. Raoul whirled around—but nothing was there. But of course—his sweet Christine was scared of what the darkness might be hiding… Raoul didn't blame her, after what she'd been through.

Although Raoul thought that Christine was simply frightened about what might lay hidden within the darkness, she was actually watching for any sign that might alert her to Erik's presence. But Raoul did not know that, and Christine wasn't about to tell him.

Raoul's heart filled with compassion for his poor Christine. The poor frightened girl was seeing the phantom at every turn. A surge of righteous anger flooded him. "My poor Little Lotte," he murmured, putting an arm about her comfortingly. "After what you've been through…"

Christine pushed his arm away. "And just what exactly have I been through?" she demanded.

Was she trying to be brave for him? "Why, the phantom, of course. He kidnapped you, seduced you, forced himself on you! But never fear," he repeated. "He will never find you at my mansion."

Christine tried to protest—what a sweet girl, not wanting to impose on his hospitality—but he pulled her along, heading out to his carriage. "No!" Christine screamed, trying to pull away from him. "I don't want to leave! Erik! Erik, help me!"

"Erik?" Raoul laughed, almost maniacally. "Is that your monster's name? Well then, _Erik_"—he pulled Christine closer to him—"I fear you have lost yourself a victim. Christine will never be yours!" And he dragged her out the door and into the carriage. He was trying not to hurt her, but it was difficult because she was kicking and flailing. Fortunately, she was quite weaker than most females, or he might have had to injure the poor, distraught girl.

Once she was securely inside, Raoul shouted for the driver to get moving. He just couldn't understand it. Why was Christine being so difficult? It went beyond feminine wiles… But of course! She obviously didn't want him, Raoul, to get himself involved. Yes, that must be it. By rescuing her from this "Erik" creature, he was placing himself in danger. Christine was such a selfless child!

——————————————————————————————————————————————

After a period of rough bumps and neighing horses assaulting Christine's mind, the carriage had come to a stop at the front of the de Chagny mansion. For the moment, she had given up trying to escape. She now regretted shouting Erik's name. Now Raoul would know who to look for if he wished to rid herself of the "monster". But perhaps Raoul just wanted to protect her—after all, they _had_ been childhood sweethearts.

"Oh Raoul," she said concernedly, struck with a terrible thought, "if Erik had seen me even talking to you, we'd both be done for. He's terribly jealous."

Raoul nodded understandingly, looking pleased. "Oh, of course, darling," he said magnanimously. "He has much to be jealous of." He wrapped an arm about Christine's shoulders.

As much as she hated to admit it, she enjoyed the feel of Raoul's strong arm protecting her. She allowed him to stroke her hair, thinking that, perhaps, this would not be such a terrible thing.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

"Aaah," proclaimed Raoul's brother, the Comte de Chagny. "So this is the angel you've so constantly spoken of. And indeed, she is lovely; simply ravishing!" He kissed her hand. "Yes, this would make a fine bride for my younger brother… If only she wasn't common-born."

This man's haughty demeanor ruined whatever compliments he felt magnanimous enough to bestow. But his courtly manners and dashing smile changed her mind. Soon enough she was smiling.

Raoul, on the other hand, suddenly looked sullen. Pulling Christine's hand out of his brother's reach, he muttered, "She _will_ make a fine bride—and that's why I'd like to keep her to myself. Thank you, Philippe."

The Comte—Philippe, was she to call him?—laughed and said gravely, "Of course, little brother. I would not part with such a jewel for all the world."

"Raoul," Christine yawned, realizing that the trip had made her rather weary, "could you show me to my rooms? I'm a bit tired."

"Certainly, mon amor." Raoul offered her his arm and escorted her up the stairs.


	22. Beautiful Tapestries & Unwanted Advances

**Chapter Twenty Two:**

**L'Tapisseries de Toute Beauté et L'Avances Indésirable**

Raoul opened the door to Christine's rooms with unnecessary flourish. "Here we are, my dear!"

"Thank you," she said, entering her rooms. She brushed all thoughts of distress and wonder from her mind—everything would be a lot clearer in the morning. And then, if she felt like it, she could just tell Raoul that she wanted to leave, and that was that.

Raoul caught her arm. "My room is just down the hall, should you have need of me." He smiled slightly. "Good night, Christine." He kissed her hand, and, for a moment, just stared into her eyes. His lips parted slightly, and he seemed to be leaning towards her. Christine found that she was a little afraid. She did not move. After a moment, however, Raoul shrugged and said, in an attempt at nonchalance, "All right, darling, if you're not ready." And with that, he dropped her hand and stalked off to his rooms.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

He just couldn't understand that girl. There were many other girls that would_ die_ to be in her place! Why was she so unwilling to accept their love? Why, it was destiny, fate—you cannot fight what is meant to be! But alas, Christine hadn't accepted that yet.

And he couldn't have just kissed her—alas, the look on her face! She had looked so scared! Raoul had realized then that he had to go slow with Christine, if he was to win her. He winced, thinking of the way that he had rashly kissed her before—that time on the street. And she had run away.

_What was wrong with her?_ His brow furrowed in frustration. Perhaps he hadn't tried hard enough. He thought back to his every word, every movement. What had he done wrong?

_Nothing_, soothed a comforting voice in his head. _Give her time_. And so I shall, Raoul told it tiredly. I'll do whatever it takes to win Christine's love.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Christine sighed, somewhat relieved that she hadn't been forced to make that particular decision. She locked the door, as a precaution. It was hard enough for her to make choices at all, let alone choosing between Erik and Raoul…

When she turned around and appraised her rooms, her eyes widened at the sight of the overpowering, fancy adornments. It was all so beautiful! It seemed that someone had tried very hard to cover every bit of available space with silk cushions and vases, every inch of wall with tapestry and gold leaf.

Christine explored her rooms. Every wall was covered in tapestries of castles and roses. The bed was big enough for four, with pink satin sheets and posts of what looked like gilded ivory. The architect had, apparently, not been satisfied with just one bathroom—there were two, both were decked out in rose-colored marble, colder than that morning's frost. It was all beautiful.

The balcony, by far, was her favorite feature of her rooms. It faced west, giving Christine a kingly view of the sunset. As she leaned against the railing—again, marble—she relaxed. She wouldn't have to decide which man to love until morning.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

"Hello, Christine," greeted Raoul cheerily. "I trust you slept well." Christine did not want to lie; she hadn't slept well at all. When she'd sat down on her bed, she'd sunk a full six inches. It was like sinking in quicksand. "Here—have some marmalade," he continued, offering her a glass jar full of a viscous orange gel.

"Um, no thank you… I slept fine." She seated herself next to Raoul at the table. Scanning the food, she inwardly shook her head in wonder. Didn't the de Chagnys eat anything that was… plain? Most everything was wildly exotic, and smothered in some form of sweetener. She accepted a plain piece of toast and resigned herself to listening to the breakfast conversation.

Raoul was talking. "…and so I said, 'Gentlemen, the Phantom has to go!'. But the managers refused, saying that he was dangerous… Dangerous, ha! That ugly coward, hiding in the shadows, brave enough to kidnap a helpless girl—but not to face me like a man! Anyway, I—Christine, what's the matter? You look… ill."

"It's… nothing," she managed, becoming too interested in a poached egg to look at him. Did he think he could win her heart through belaying Erik with such foul, undeserved talk?

Raoul shrugged and continued, "But then I stood up and said, 'Either the monster goes, or the funding you've been receiving from the de Chagny house.' And of course the managers jumped to attention and promised his immediate removal."

"Raoul, you shouldn't toy with the managers so." Philippe shook his head despairingly. But after a moment he laughed. "At least we won't have to worry about that _thing_ spiriting Mlle. Daaé away again."

Raoul raised his glass. "I'll drink to that."

Philippe nodded and got up from the table. "I have to be off. Good day, Raoul, Mlle. Daaé." After he left, a painful silence filled the room.

But then Raoul seemed to remember something. "Oh, Christine—what exactly is wrong with Mme. Valerius? I shall see that she is tended to immediately."

Christine jumped, remembered her lie from the day before. "It's nothing serious—just a slight infection in her foot. She'll be fine."

"That's good to hear," Raoul declared. "Though I was looking forward to being the one responsible for her return to health—she's so close to you, after all."

"I appreciate your concern," she said shyly. He was so gallant!

"Also, I wish to apologize about the other night, when I kissed you out on the streets," Raoul continued.

Christine had somewhat forgotten. "That's… alright," she said heavily.

"Thank you." Raoul kissed her hand, and she blushed, her mind whirled back to the last time Erik had kissed her. Just thinking of Erik, his eyes afire, his lips full of passion and yet always so tender… brought tears to her eyes. Oh, how she missed him! Still painfully indecisive, she cast her eyes down and said demurely, "Ah… Raoul, I don't know…"

"Oh." Raoul looked slightly deflated. "Well, whatever you say, my dear."


	23. Forget the Monster

My pride requires me to state that the spelling errors in Christine's subsequent letter are quite on purpose (as in the Princess Bride, when Buttercup goes to start her letter to Westley and immediately asks, "Is 'divine' spelled 'de' or di'?").

**Chapter Twenty Three:**

**À Oublier l'Monstre**

Erik was worried. Christine had not been at the Opera Populaire for days. He had gone to see Antoinette about it, and she had had no word of Christine either. She'd merely said that Christine probably needed some time alone, to think. Though she'd promised to look into Christine's disappearance, Erik's nerves were hardly soothed.

He had taken to pacing about his lair, trying to convince himself that she was in no danger. Had she perhaps said something to the effect that she would be taking a short break from her performances? But no matter how many times he wracked his brain, no solution to his impending dilemma surfaced within his thoughts.

Perhaps Christine was sick? Yes, or she was taking of Mme. Valerius—Christine had mentioned that she had some infection… Whatever it was, it was nothing to be troubled about. _I worry about her too much_, he scolded himself silently. Christine was just fine. Although he had thought he'd heard her screaming his name… But that was ridiculous. Even that lackwit of a Vicomte wouldn't try to do anything to Christine with so many people around. _Would he?_

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Christine found that she missed Erik more and more. Raoul was indeed gallant and wonderful to her, but he did not share her love of music, and seemed to take her opinions too lightly. Whenever she ventured a thought, he would just smile at her patronizingly, as if to say, "Well, you never were very bright."

She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples to assuage a growing headache. She didn't know what to think.

Raoul seemed to have come to the conclusion that "sweet, poetic words" were the way to her heart. 'Divine goddess, ravishing blossom, fair Aphrodite that stole'th my heart…' It quickly went from flattering to trying. But at least now she was safe, locked in her rooms. She was seated on her lace-trimmed bed, writing a letter to Erik. She feared that her unexplained absence would have him worried.

_Dear Erik,_ she wrote,

_If you have been feared for my welbeing, don't worry. The Vicomte de Chagny has taken it upon himself to ensur my safty by permiting me to stay at his mansion. I am well. Soon enough, I think, I will return to the Opera Populere._

Christine read this over, thinking. This last sentence was a lie, of course. Every time she brought up the subject of returning to the opera house, Raoul just waved it away, saying that "the monster had not yet been eliminated". There really was nothing more to say.

_Afectionatly Yours,_

_Christine_

She would give it to Raoul, to give to Mme. Giry. He wouldn't read it, she knew. She slipped the letter into the envelope.

A laugh rang from the parlor. Raoul's brother, Philippe, was—apparently, by the sound of well-bred voices downstairs—entertaining some of the more vaunted members of Parisian society. Christine was glad that Raoul's attention, for the moment, was focused on them—rather than on wooing her. As much as she secretly enjoyed his dramatic attentions, they were somewhat hollow in comparison to Erik's glorious devotion.

But Christine had yet to know the full meaning of Raoul's flirtatious intentions.

A knock came at her door. "Darling, exit thine chambers so that I might'st speaketh with you!" But before Christine could think up a reply, he continued, "Oh, never mind—I have a key right here." Christine stood as she heard the scrape of metal against metal. The door opened, revealing an energetic Raoul, ready for a fresh attempt at winning her heart.

He closed the door behind him and smiled congenially. "I hope that the noise downstairs did not disturb you," he said. "Being one of the upper-class, I can tell you—they can get rather loud." He smiled. "But being one of the _jeunesse dorée—_" He smiled at Christine's confused expression. "_Jeunesse dorée_ are young and fashionable nobility, my dear. Anyway, it _does_ yet have more advantages than you would think. For example, beautiful women seem to… flock to me."

Christine returned to sealing the envelope. Raoul went on talking for several moments before noticing that she was not paying attention.

"…should have seen Véronique Doreé last—My dear, what's in the envelope?"

"Just a letter to Mme. Giry… informing her that I was going to stay here a while." She smiled at him reassuringly. "I'm tired, Raoul—I think I'll turn in. Goodnight."

But Raoul was not to be turned from his course that easily. Though he dismissed the issue of the letter—"I shall have it delivered in the morning, then"—he obviously wanted to continue endeavoring to win her affections. "Come, Christine," he said, beckoning, "Let us go out onto the balcony and view the marvelous stars… Though they are nothing compared to your eyes."

Christine got up off the bed, wondering if her eyes were really worthy of such praise. She walked to the balcony railing and stared off into the distance. The stars were really very beautiful, though she had not taken the time to look at them in a long while. "Windows into heaven," her father had called them. And through one of those stars, she knew, her father was watching over her. With a pang, she realized that Erik could be gazing at these same stars that very moment, wondering what had become of her. It was at moments like these that she couldn't stand Raoul's company.

While Christine was thinking these sobering thoughts, Raoul had something else in mind. It was time, he judged, to put his hours spent spouting romantic notions to the test. Nothing major, however; Christine was probably still in shock from the kisses of the monster. On the other hand, she might welcome the chance to show that unsightly abomination that she loved someone else. He gently slid an arm across her shoulders, pulling her closer to him.

Christine did not respond. She seemed to be biting the inside of her cheek, as if… determined to control herself. But of course—a lady such as herself ought not to let her romantic inclinations overtake her. She was obviously trying not to throw her arms about his neck and kiss him. Raoul grinned suddenly. What harm was there in giving her a taste of what she wanted?

And he took her in his arms and turned her to face him. She tried to protest, but he just shook his head. "It's fine, darling. I understand." The beginnings of a fierce passion had begun to eat at his mind, gnawing away at his judgment and self-restraint. He threw caution to the winds.

Raoul's kiss was gentle and courtly, but demanding and passionate at the same time. Christine remained in his embrace for several moments, momentarily forgetting that Erik existed. Raoul loved her, and that was all that mattered…

But then her mind conjured unbidden an image of Erik, kneeling at her feet, crying, as he had when she had said she loved him… And she shoved Raoul away.


	24. A Dastardly Plan

**Chapter Twenty Four:**

**Une L'usine Infâme**

Raoul stared at the milky contents of the two small bottles in his hand. Such a mystery how something so little could change so much… How such a small thing could be so powerful… The man at the apothecary had informed him that just a fourth of a bottle-full would render anyone submissive to even their worst fears. Their minds would be cloudy, or something… Things like this changed lives—took lives.

But Raoul wasn't about to kill Christine, no—he was going to help her see his way of thinking without such aggravating resistance. Certainly, her fortitude in the face of his love had at first been attractive—but now it was just trying.

Raoul figured that if he just coated the rim of her glass in the drug—no need to spoil the wine—she would be acquiescent in a few hours. And he would be able to keep her from causing problems. If one dose of the potion did not dissolve her coquette refusal of his love, then a second surely would. Not that he intended to force his love on her—of course not! But Mme. Giry had been asking him rather irritating questions when he'd been at the opera house that day. She suspected that Christine was with him… And of course, there was nothing wrong with that. It was fine if the monster knew, too—as long as he thought that Christine was there of her own will. At first, Raoul had thought that Christine was happy to be spending more time with him—but that letter!

He hadn't meant to open her letter, but the dear girl had not sealed it properly. It had come open in his hand, the treacherous contents flashing in the candlelight of his chambers. It had hurt him most dreadfully, especially the last line. "Affectionately yours…" It made his blood boil, to think that a disgusting monster invoked more affection in Christine that a handsome, rich Vicomte, who had rescued her scarf and been her friend for so many years. But of course, she'd written it before he'd kissed her, of which passions she had been a most willing participant. For a minute, anyway. The hooks the monster had driven into her poor heart were still there. But they were fading. Still, the letter could have ruined everything!

The letter, yes… That was why Raoul had bought this nameless drug. He needed a letter in Christine's handwriting to give to Mme. Giry. She would see that the monster got it. "Dear Erik," it would say, "I have become engaged to the Vicomte de Chagny, and never want to see you again…" Raoul smiled. What he would pay to see the look on _its_ face when it read _that_!

_The man running the backwater apothecary shop had said to Raoul, "We 'ave a wide selection of poisons, guv'nor—quick to kill, impossible t'detect." The man's smile was twisted. He was short and stocky, with one eye that seemed to stare in a different direction than the other. He was obviously a dealer in very dark, unlawful drugs—under no other circumstances would Raoul have associated with this man. He had glanced around upon entering the dingy shop, afraid that some wretch would recognize him._

"_I don't want to kill anyone," Raoul snapped. That wasn't exactly true… Oh, how he'd love to get his hands around the Phantom's throat! "I just need to… keep someone from harrying my plans for a few days."_

_The man smiled even wider. "Well, tha' means i's either a man wi' valuable information, or a woman you've been… wanting."_

"_Does it matter?" Raoul didn't want to admit anything more to this lowlife than he had to._

"_Yeah, i' does. Th' 'mounts 're diff'rent. Now"—didn't this infernal man ever stop smirking?—"from yer embarrassment, I take it i's a woman. For that, th' dosage is smaller, see?"_

"_Fine," Raoul snapped. "Just give it to me." _

The man had told him to mix the contents of the bottles a half-hour before it was to be ingested. Raoul cast a glance towards a clock on his wall. The time for dinner was fast approaching. He poured the contents of the first bottle into an empty vial.

"_Just a few drops," the apothecary man had warned him. "An' remember, if'n yeh want 'er to be a li'le more co'erent, you'll need t'come back an' get a diff'rent one, see? 'Cause if yeh give 'er 'alf a dose, it'll work full force for 'alf the time. An' th' 'mounts of this"—he handed Raoul a minute bottle—"an' this"—another bottle—"_mus' _be the same. Otherwise it'll be either too acidic or too alkaline."_

"_And what will that do?" It was important to understand the full power of the drugs he held in his hands._

"_Kill 'er," the man said, as if this was obvious._

Raoul had finished mixing the contents of the bottles. Having bought enough for three nights—better safe than sorry—a third of it ought to do.

Lost in these cold, calculating thoughts, Raoul did not hear the knock at the door. After a moment, the knocking became more insistent, shaking Raoul from his deliberations. "What is it?" he demanded in irritation.

"Maid, sir."

Raoul shoved the bottle into his pocket and strode towards the door. After he had unlocked and opened it, the maid continued,

"Dinner is ready, sir."

"Oh—good. Very good… thank you, you may go."

With a smile and a stiff curtsy, the maid turned and walked down the hall to inform Christine that dinner had been prepared. Raoul watched her go, adrenaline beginning to awaken in his veins. It was time. He reentered his rooms momentarily, to retrieve his dinner jacket.

With a smile, he pocketed the deadly bottle and headed towards the door. But as he reached for the handle, he felt a pang of guilt—what would Philippe think of these underhanded dealings? He had always tried to follow his brother's example, to be a man of flawless honor… Philippe would never do something like this. But, after only a few moments' hesitation, Raoul decided that Christine's love meant more to him than what his brother would think of him if he learned of his treacherous deed. Which, with any luck, he wouldn't. Raoul paused on the threshold, and then stepped into the hall.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Christine sat on her plush cushions, not knowing what to think. Raoul loved her, and she decided she loved him back. After all, what could Erik offer her? A hand-carved bed in a dark lair beneath the streets of Paris? She would never see the sunlight again, down there… Raoul, on the other hand, was rich—whatever she wanted, he could get for her with a snap of his fingers.

But Raoul had already delivered her letter! What if Erik came out here, ready to kill Raoul for her, and she had to tell him that she'd decided to stay with the Vicomte? Erik would be so heartbroken…

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Christine seated herself in one of the many velveteen chairs surrounding the dining table, studying Raoul's face with some interest. His expression was more…_ determined_ than usual. What was he going to do? Even the very candles that lit up the room seemed to burn more dimly than they usually did.

Raoul smiled at her courteously. "Christine—you've had a pleasurable day, I suppose?"

"Yes, thank you." She smiled back, unable to resist his courtly charms. "It was just fine."

He passed her a bowl of salad, seeming more courteous and agreeable than she'd even seen him. Even Philippe looked as if he'd noticed some minute change. "It's very good of you to say that," said Raoul. "But alas, I am afraid that you aren't as content here as I would like to imagine… You wish to be back at the Opera Populaire, I am sure."

Christine didn't quite know what to make of this sudden change of resolve. She had thought he was going to keep her with him… But the thought of returning to the opera house—to Mme. Giry, to Mamma Valerius, to Erik—brought back feelings she had discarded. An unbidden ache in her heart rose, and she found she missed Erik more than she had realized. Yes, she wanted to return… Shifting slightly in her chair, she replied, "I would like very much to return to the opera house. There is much that I still have to learn."

"Ah—you are speaking of the lessons that the mon—" he caught himself and winked at Christine affably. "…that _Erik_, rather, was giving you. Oh yes, I know about those—Mme. Valerius was kind enough to inform me… Christine, you really should try the wine—excellent year. Here, allow me to pour you a glass… Well, if he isn't too angry with you for deserting him like that, I'm sure that he'll be quite glad to continue them."

"What?" Christine could not believe her ears. Raoul couldn't _possibly_ be allowing her to return to Erik…

"Why Raoul," Philippe said, shocked, "surely you jest—you would not turn her over to _the creature_? From what you've told me—"

"_I WAS MISINFORMED_," Raoul declared loudly through gritted teeth, talking over him. Christine could swear she saw a momentary flare of anger in his eyes towards his older brother—but a second later it was replaced by the blandly amiable expression that he had previously been wearing. "It seems that this… man… is more than worthy of Christine's affections. Which, I'm sure, she will be more than happy to provide." He sighed dramatically. "At which point, I shall… _step out of the picture_." He paused, then seemed to come to his senses and gestured to a large bowl of pudding on the table. "_Tembleque_, Christine? It came all the way from Valencia."

Christine, who had been drinking the wine that Raoul had offered her, for lack of anything to say, gasped involuntarily. "Are you serious?" Raoul was consenting to let her be with Erik, his rival?

"Yes—it was very expensive, let me tell you—"

"No," Christine cried in agitation. "The part about Erik—you'd… just let me leave?" Her brain felt slightly clouded; it was hard to concentrate on Raoul's reply. She couldn't remember any reason for Raoul not to like Erik… there _was_ one, she knew—but it was trapped in some dark, obscure corned of her mind, clouded over…

"Of course," Raoul said quietly. There was something… insincere about his smile—but Christine found that she couldn't focus her eyes on his face. Moments later she sank to the floor, unable to hold herself up any longer. As her eyes filled with stars, Raoul bent over her.

"I'll never let you go." His voice was still quiet—but a hard note had pierced the former tranquility. His cold, sparkling eyes and triumphant smile were the last thing Christine saw before her world faded into nothingness.


	25. The Plot Set in Effect

**Chapter Twenty Five:**

**Complots Malfaisant se Mettre ả Effet**

"Oh dear," sighed Raoul sympathetically, leaning over Christine's unconscious form. The soft light from the windows fell across her unmoving features, causing her to appear even more beautiful and helpless than usual. "She's fainted…"

"That's terrible," frowned Philippe, rising slightly from his chair. "It must have been something in the food… Or perhaps the strain? You did, after all, threaten to return her to the monster." Poor Miss Daaé. The thought of being forced to reside with such a creature would be enough to make anyone collapse. Raoul really did need to realize the fragility of women…

"I did_ not_," Raoul muttered. "I was just… joking. It _must _have been something in the food. Or the stress of everything in general—she probably thinks that the monster could come and kidnap her at any time."

"True… I _knew_ I shouldn't have hired that Italian chef—he didn't look like he knew what he was doing. Well, he shall be thrown from the house at once!"

Raoul looked annoyed. "No, don't do that. The dinner was simply divine—she probably just had an… allergic reaction to something."

She _had_ started looking ill after she'd drank some of the wine Raoul had passed her… "Yes, that must be it," Philippe said decisively. Christine moaned unconsciously. What was she seeing in her dreams, he wondered? Snakes, monsters, spiders… to her, frightful things that one cannot fight in the subconscious realm. "…You'd best take her upstairs, I think."

"Yes." Raoul hoisted her up into his arms and gently carried her out of the room.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Raoul deposited Christine's limp form down on the bed. As a safety precaution, he decided to lock the door. It would not do for a maid or—Heaven forbid—the monster to enter the sanctity of her chambers. Especially with her unconscious as she was. He hadn't been expecting that. "She has a key in here somewhere," he muttered to himself.

It only took him a few minutes to find it in the top drawer of her nightstand. As he turned to leave, he hesitated. Instead of exiting the room, he again approached Christine's bed. She was so innocent, she helpless… For a moment, he just stood there, letting the power of her beauty envelop him. Then he bent over and placed a firm kiss on her lips.

"Never fear, darling—you shall yet be mine." With a slight grin, Raoul stroked her cheek for a moment; then he sighed and silently strode towards the door. He took a final glance into Christine's chambers, before closing and swiftly locking the door to his Little Lotte. A soft chuckle escaped him as he strode away from her prison.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

"She'll be fine," Raoul announced to an anxious Philippe when he returned to the dining room. _Of course she would. The effects of the potion were, after all, only temporary…_

Philippe abruptly stood, almost knocking the sugar bowl from the table in his consternation. "_You don't know that._ She could be seriously ill! I shall send for a doctor at once. Raoul, would you mind giving the chef his notice?" He started out of the room, but Raoul quickly caught his arm. It would do his cause no good for a doctor to examine Christine…

"I don't think a doctor is necessary. Let us see if she gets better on her own first, all right?"

Philippe shook his head. "I'd rather not take the chance." He stared at Raoul for a moment, a frown creasing his brow. "What's gotten into you?"

What if Philippe began to suspect? "It's nothing… Well, if you insist upon a doctor, I shall fetch one myself." Seeing the strange look on his brother's face, he added, "I want to make sure that my bride gets only the best medical attention."

Philippe nodded. "Fine, then. I'll take care of the chef."

"No," Raoul said decisively. "He did nothing wrong. Do not worry, I shall return before long." He attempted a smile as he swept past his older brother. Of course, he had absolutely no intention of fetching a doctor. But, as Philippe trusted his word implicitly, it would not be hard to pretend that no doctor could make a house-call on such short notice…

When he reached the door, a pang of guilt stopped him. He glanced back at his brother, wishing that he could tell him everything. But Philippe would only try to stop him. _I shall tell you soon, my brother,_ he promised. _After it is all over, and the monster is no more._

——————————————————————————————————————————————

"Haven't you found Christine yet?" Erik asked anxiously. It had been days since Antoinette had promised to find her, yielding no results. Every passing moment ripped through his heart with the knowledge that Christine was out there, somewhere… But was she being held captive, or avoiding him of her own free will? Erik did not know which option seemed worse to him.

"No, I haven't," Antoinette replied crisply. "And I'd very much appreciate it if you'd stop asking me every few minutes! As I've said on _numerous _occasions, no one seems to know. She just… didn't show up one day. The managers hinted that the Vicomte de Chagny informed them that she was sick…"

"What?! And you just let it go at that? That pathetic excuse for an aristocrat has Christine captive, and you just—_let—it—go—at—that_?!"

"For your information, I haven't had the opportunity to speak to the Vicomte as of late. The one time that he's been at the opera house, he just brushed past me." Seeing the exasperated expression on Erik's face, she added, "I don't think that we should act until we're certain. It may well be that Christine's adoptive mother—what's her name… Valerius?—really _is_ ill, or Christine is herself." Erik didn't move. After a moment, Antoinette ventured, "Perhaps she just needs some time alone—love can be… difficult to cope with…" Seeing Erik's scowl, she repeated, "But in any case, I can't ask the Vicomte about it until he returns here!"

"Can't you just go to his—his giant mansion and ask him there?" Erik could just picture Christine, chained at the Vicomte's feet, begging for mercy, while the detestable fop sipped rare wine and laughed…

"No. That just isn't done. I know it's hard for you to understand such unnecessary things as upper-class etiquette, but I wish you'd _try_ once in a while."

Erik froze, the words hitting him full-force. _Of course_ he didn't deal with etiquette, living alone in a dingy, rat-filled cave—_all because of his monstrous appearance… _He turned away and silently made his way towards the door, unwilling to let Antoinette see how she had hurt him.

But she realized what she had said, with a hurried, "Oh, Erik, I'm so sorry—I didn't mean it like that…! Well, never mind, the Vicomte is coming to speak to the managers today about the next opera, _Idomeneo_—it's supposed to be really good. I'll speak to him then."

——————————————————————————————————————————————

As Erik exited Antoinette's rooms, fuming, he began to enact a plan of his own. _No way_ was he going to wait for that fop to tell Antoinette that "Christine was just fine, going to marry him, in fact." Christine needed his help—he could just… feel it. But he would heed Antoinette's advice—perhaps Christine just needed some time to consider their relationship. But there was no way of being sure of that!

Erik raged all the way down the stone steps, across the underground lake, and to the heart of his lair. He seated himself in front of a dilapidated desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. Fingering a black quill, he began to write:

_Gentlemen,  
In my observations of the ongoing practices for the upcoming opera, Idomeneo, it has come to my attention that one of your many chorus girls has left the Opera House service. I wish to inquire as to where this chorus member, by the name of Christine Daaé, who served as a replacement for Carlotta on numerous occasions, has disappeared to; for she had great talent and it would be a great loss to the opera if she were not returned._

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

After the ink had dried, he sealed the letter with his gruesome skull insignia. He didn't actually like the skull much, but it did seem to scare the managers into submission. _A promise of death_, he reasoned, _if they do not force the Vicomte to return Christine…_

——————————————————————————————————————————————

" '…a great loss to the opera if she were not returned'," concluded Firmin in consternation, slamming the note on to the table with unwarranted force. "Signed by the Opera Ghost. Well, Andre, what have you to say about that?"

Andre frowned, tensely eyeing the evil-looking skull. "The last thing we want is for the opera ghost to interfere right before out production of _Idomeneo_. Why, the Baron von Moreau is coming to our opening performance! We certainly can't cancel—it's less that a week away, for Heaven's Sake…"

"Well?" Firmin asked in consternation. "What should we do? _Mon Dieu_, this phantom has been a veritable _blight _on the Opera Populaire since we first acquired it."

"Perhaps the Vicomte de Chagny would be of some assistance in this matter?" Andre suggested hesitantly. "He's coming this afternoon to discuss his future backing of the Opera Populaire… He seems to be on familiar terms with Miss Daaé, after all… Maybe he knows something—"

"—and if he doesn't," Firmin finished decisively, "he could smooth it over with the Baron von Moreau."

Andre nodded, casting the phantom's letter into the wastebasket.


	26. If She Were Not Returned

**Chapter Twenty Six:**

"**Si Elle Étions Pas Renvoyée Par"**

…_if she were not returned._

The words were branded into Raoul's mind, even after he had returned the note to Firmin—as if someone had heated them till they were red-hot and thrust them into his eyes.

…_if she were not returned._

The phantom knew. Though he had not actually mentioned Raoul in his foreboding letter, Raoul could tell. The assumingly innocuous phrase promised vengeance, and retribution… _I won't let it happen_, he snarled wordlessly to the creature that had kept Christine from him for so long. _You just _try_ and take her away from me._

Raoul glanced around the extravagantly decorated office, half-expecting the monster to appear and finish him off. He was not certain whether he wanted this to happen or not— undoubtedly, he wanted a chance to kill the heinous thing, after all it had done to Christine…! …but what if it got its nefarious Lasso 'round his neck before he got the chance? Raoul did not fear fighting a man on equal footing, but this Phantom was no gentleman—hardly a man at all!—no matter how eloquent his letters.

He felt a shameful cloud of fear settle over his mind, causing him to grip the sides of his chair all the more tightly. Firmin was talking at him, but he was not listening. He was too occupied with fighting off the dread that had laid siege to his normally-fearless mind. _Such a creature could never best me,_ he tried to reassure himself. _I am a gentleman, the son of a Comte of France!_ But such thoughts did little to ease his discomfort. Certainly, he was a Vicomte—but what did that matter once the Phantom's rope had stolen the life from his body?

He attempted to focus his attention upon Firmin, who apparently had not noticed that Raoul was paying him no heed whatsoever. "…cannot continue, Vicomte. Why," Firmin spluttered in consternation, "the performance of _Idomeneo _begins in three days—and no irksome phantasm will get in the way of it. The Baron von Moreau is a very important person, you know…"

Without warning, a dark shadow in the far corner of the wide-open cabinet shifted. Raoul could swear that he saw two hellish, gleaming eyes boring into his; he thought in his panic that he could make out the dark form of a lasso at its side. He glanced towards the managers in dismay; they had not noticed.

Raoul had carried only his Venetian dagger to the Opera House that day, foolishly concerned about proper etiquette. How he wished that he had brought his pistol, or at least his rapier! "Firmin," he said shakily, trying to ignore the portent shadow, "why is the presence of the Baron von Moreau so important?"

"He has offered to be our financial backer after you leave for Greece, Vicomte."

Raoul must have looked at him strangely, in his uneasiness, for Andre said, "You did tell us that you were departing for your summer home in Greece for a while, yes?"

"Oh." Raoul had forgotten that he had told the managers that. Not even Christine knew—not yet. "Yes."

"Good," Firmin said, sounding a bit impatient. "Now—we were wondering if you could aid us in this matter."

"In what way?" _Kill the monster?_ Raoul thought feverishly. _No, I can't do that… If I die, what will stand between it and Christine?_

"More than one, actually. Firstly, if something happens and we are forced to cancel _Idomeneo_, you must speak with the Baron and attempt to smooth things over."

"Done," Raoul promised without thinking about it. That would be accomplished easily enough. "You said that there was something else?"

Andre and Firmin looked at each other for a moment before Andre spoke up. "As you know from this letter"—he gestured to the Phantom's letter lying innocently upon the desk—"the ghost cares very much about the whereabouts of Mlle. Daaé. And since you are… so close to her… we were wondering if you knew where she was. Is she with you?"

Raoul blanched. There was no way that the managers—or anyone else, for that matter—could know where Christine was. And certainly not this "phantom" of hers. But he did not wish to lie, no—he wanted the managers to know, and the monster. He wanted them to know that Christine was residing at his mansion, and would soon be his bride. "Yes, as a matter of fact, she is. We are to be married soon." He glanced towards the shadows apprehensively, wondering if the monster had heard that. But the shadow was gone. Raoul blinked and rubbed his eyes, disbelieving. Had he just dreamed that there was a shadow…?

——————————————————————————————————————————————

"And then he said," Erik concluded to Nadir some time later, " 'We are to be married soon.' "

"So?" Nadir asked impatiently.

"_So_," Erik cried, jumping to his feet in consternation, causing his chair to crash to the floor, "all this time I've been sitting here listening to you and Antoinette—'Oh, Christine is fine'," he mimicked Antoinette bitterly, " 'so don't do anything stupid'—Christine is out there in the clutches of that overconfident oaf!"

Nadir frowned. "Erik… I think it's time you come to terms with the fact that perhaps Christine_ wants_ to marry him." Viewing Erik's snarl and his sudden fingering of his infamous Punjab Lasso, he added, "That is, it's a possibility—"

"I will not even consider it," Erik declared. Though in a deep corner of his mind, the thought had beleaguered him for some time, having taken root and growing with each passing day.

Nadir sighed. "Look… if you want, I'll go to the de Chagny mansion and see if Christine is all right. Erik, sit back down—you can't go! That's the very thing the Vicomte would want. That is," he amended, "if your theory is correct." Erik remained standing, his eyes blazing. Nadir placed an unyielding hand on his shoulder and forced him to sit. The feat took all of his strength. "Listen," he implored wearily, "if you're right—and I mean _if_—then the worst possible thing you could do for Christine would be to walk right into the Vicomte's hands, where he could just snap his fingers"—he snapped his own for emphasis—"and there would be a hundred guards surrounding you. And what hope would there be for Christine then?" Erik could tell that Nadir did not believe a word of what he was saying. The Vicomte de Chagny was loved by his fellow Parisians. The thought was enough to make him sick.

"Fine," Erik conceded. Nadir's argument made sense, even if the Persian did not believe it himself. But a part of Erik's heart, deep within his chest, growled in fury—he _could _defeat the Vicomte!

——————————————————————————————————————————————

The entire room shook as the office door slammed. The Chief of Police looked up wearily. He had quite enough on his plate at the moment, what with the mysterious Phantom and the outbreak of pneumonia—why, it had started a literal chain of robberies! People desperate for medicine. But perhaps he could handle one more complaint—it was part of his job. He attempted to put on a welcome smile for the man entering his office—but that was before he saw who it was.

"Well, Monsieur Blaise?" The Vicomte de Chagny demanded. "Why haven't you caught him yet?"

Leonhard Blaise withheld a sigh of aggravation with some difficulty. "He escapes all our traps… Though he is never seen, he always does _something _to prove that he is above the law."

The Vicomte loosed a short, derisive laugh. "He's only a man, for Goodness Sake!"

"True," the chief conceded grudgingly, "but no ordinary man." He lowered his gaze back to the dry report about the arrest of a poor woman who had stolen two bottles of medicine for her pneumonia-stricken son.

"Well? Did you search Miss Daaé's dressing room? Lie in wait for him?"

Leonhard looked up into the Vicomte's fuming eyes. "Sir, I joined the police force so that I could _help_ people. To try… to try and make the world a better place, if I can. Not to sit here and take your unreasonable complaints. I am perfectly aware of your high status and… _personal_ interest in the Phantom. But we are doing all that we can. And you are certainly not aiding us any."

The Vicomte looked somewhat taken aback at this lack of respect. He was obviously not taking into account the hours upon end that the police had wasted listening to his inane disparagement and derision. But he regained his footing within a few moments. "But Miss Daaé's life is in danger!"

"The last I heard, she was safe and sound sitting on a silk pillow in the splendor of your estate."

The Vicomte bristled angrily. "I could have your position, you know."

Leonhard brushed away this threat without so much as a thought. If the Vicomte de Chagny wanted any cooperation from the police, he would not be so imprudent as to fire their chief. Rising from his chair, he ushered the protesting Vicomte out of his office. "I have placed an agent inside the Opera Populaire to expose this 'phantom'. When we capture him, you shall be the first to know."

Once the Vicomte was safely out the door, the chief locked the door firmly and set himself back down at his desk. "Well," he muttered to himself, "That takes care of him, for the moment… Now I can get back to my job!" Scrawling his signature on the thievery report, he placed it atop a neat pile and proceeded to the next paper.

_Report Made to the Chief of Police of the City of Paris,_

_Monsieur Leonhard Blaise:_

_On the 15__th__ of this month, a Monsieur Pierre de l'Monte was apprehended attempting to rob a medicine warehouse at the intersection of C__oucher du Soleil__ St. and __L'seuil Dernier__ Boulevard…_

Yes, the epidemic was certainly holding a firm grip on the citizens of Paris… Spreading through the city as it was, it was soon to reach the area near the opera house. The Opera Populaire. The Phantom. Leonhard shook his head in dismay. As if it wasn't bad enough to have to deal with such an epidemic under normal conditions, he also had the Opera Ghost to worry about. He rubbed his temples despairingly, recalling the latest fiasco at the opera house. The police had set yet another trap for the Opera Ghost, though quite a few were convinced that "the Phantom" was just that—a specter beyond mortal reach or comprehension. But Leonhard did not agree with this sentiment. The Phantom was a man; yes, a man like any other… Well, except that he seemed to be much more cunning and driven than the likes of his would-be captors.

With some difficulty he banished these thought from his mind. That was not important, at the present. His eyes once again focused on the report in front of him, and he resignedly resumed skimming its contents.

…_De l'Monte has been secured in the prison along the southern edge of the city, where he awaits his trial, which shall take place on the 2__nd__ of next month…_

The chief set down the report and rubbed his eyes. Why was he made to read this rubbish? The man had tried to commit a crime, and he will be suitably punished. Why must they bother him with such trifles when there was a war going on out there—between the good citizens of Paris, and a mad fiend who considered himself above the law… the Opera Ghost.


	27. A Spy's Report

The title of this chapter is in German, as a tribute to Leonhard, who, in case I haven't yet mentioned, is much more German than French.

**Chapter Twenty Seven:**

**Der Geschich'te von ein Spionin**

A hesitant knock on the door roused Leonhard Blaise from his frustrated thoughts. "Come in," he called tiredly. The door opened to admit a harassed-looking cadet.

"Sir, there is a Mlle. Rebecca l'Voleta who demands to see you immediately. Something about… you not telling her what she was getting into?"

Leonhard frowned thoughtfully. l'Voleta… wasn't that the name of the police spy that he had sent undercover to the Opera Populaire? Yes, it was… But it had only been—he counted off the days on his fingers—three days since he had sent her in! "_Mien Gott_," he muttered to himself, "could she have discovered the lair of the Phantom so quickly?" He certainly hoped so; with the Opera Ghost out of the way, he could concentrate on more pressing matters—like the stressing increase in crime this year... "By all means, send her in."

But before he could so much as finish his sentence, a howling whirlwind with fuming, bloodshot eyes had burst past the astonished cadet. She was shrieking a series of unintelligible words, of which Chief Blaise caught such phrases as, "more frightened than I've ever been in my life" and "how dare you fling me into the clutches of that—"

He stood up and attempted to soothe the distraught girl. "Mlle. l'Voleta, please try to calm down… Have a seat." He sat down, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. "Please, Mlle., I cannot help you if I do not know what is wrong."

The terrified girl loosed a short, hysterical laugh. "You—help me? No, no one can help me! _Least of all you!_" Slamming her fists down on his desk, she snarled, "_You sent me in there with the assurance that the Phantom was a common man…!_ But no," she shook her head violently, her raging eyes never leaving Leonhard's bemused face. "He is much—MUCH more than that. A—a spirit, a phantasm! A brutal, sadistic _creature_ whose sole purpose is to obliterate all life he touches, to quash all that is good and untainted!" She was still standing there, towering over him, her long nails screeching in agony on the surface of his desk.

Leonhard put up his hands in an effort to calm her, though one might wonder if it was in self defense as well. "Slow down… Just take it easy. Sit down. Good. Now—what did you find out? Do you know where the phantom's hideout is?"

Her red eyes narrowed, and for a moment she seemed unable to speak. Finally she hissed, "_Haven't you been listening?_ _That _thing_ is NOT HUMAN_—if he has a lair, it is not meant to be seen by human eyes…! _If we poor mortals would ever be able to see it, that is…_" she muttered, trailing off into a glaring silence.

Leonhard did not know how to deal with this hysterical female. If it had been the usual frantic, complaining woman—who's complaints were, quite usually, too trivial of matters for him anyway—he would have shooed her out of his office, telling her to speak to Jerome Seuil or Lieutenant Dernier about it. Rubbing his temples, he said hesitantly, "Mlle. l'Voleta… I cannot help you unless you tell me what has happened. Did he discover your presence?"

Realizing the truth of his words, the woman's shoulders relaxed slightly. She sat down in the proffered chair, but her taunt fingers gripped its surface in unrealized anger. Taking a deep breath, she began to speak. "I signed on as a ballet girl at the Opera Populaire three days ago, as you instructed me to. For the first day, I basically just did as I was told, listening to Mme. Giry—the Ballet Mistress—and performing a dance or two to prove my worth. I was outfitted with a costume for the opera after _Idomeneo_—you see, they were too close to the performance of _Idomeneo _to allow for any changes to accommodate for an extra girl. So I basically had nothing to do except question people and search the opera house."

"That's very good," Leonhard interjected, wondering when she would get to the part of her narrative that had frightened her so.

"_Don't interrupt me._ I have not forgotten that it was you that placed me on this cursed undertaking! You wanted to hear what horrors befell me—and _so—you—shall_!" These last words came through gritted teeth, and Leonhard had to fight to keep from recoiling in his chair. He raised a faltering hand, gesturing for her to continue. "I had no luck the first day, as it was entirely spent assuring the officials of the Opera Populaire that I was indeed worthy of the position. On the second day, I searched the dressing rooms and managed to overhear a conversation between the managers about Him."

"The Phantom?"

Shooting a withering glare at Leonhard, she answered, "Yes, who else would it be? The managers are afraid of him. I dared not question them as to the circumstances of their fear, so I instead initiated a conversation with a chorus girl—the daughter of the Ballet Mistress. We were alone in the hall. She began to tell me about the death of Joseph Buquet, and Christine Daaé's sudden elevation to the status of diva with what she suspected was the Phantom's help. While she was talking, I saw someone watching us; a dark shadow… When I pointed it out to Meg Giry, whose back was turned to it, she turned to see what it was. But before she could entirely turn around, it had melted back into the darkness."

Leonhard frowned. It was the Phantom she was referring to, he knew, but he wondered if this alone could be the reason behind Mlle. l'Voleta's dismay. "Was this the… only such occurrence?"

"Of course not," she snapped, her ramrod posture snapping even straighter. "It takes more than that to frighten a l'Voleta away! That was only the second day of my time undercover at the opera house. When I dismissed the apparition that afternoon, I went to the dressing room to retrieve my purse; it was late, you see, and I felt it was time to go home. But when I picked it up, my hand came away with a crimson, sticky substance. Yes, Monsieur Blaise, it was blood. I was more than a little apprehensive, though I told myself that it was merely stage blood—fake, you understand."

"I don't know," Leonhard chuckled. "I heard about a Shakespeare play once, where someone misplaced the goat's blood that they were going to use, so one of the actors just punched the stage manager in the nose, and—"

"That's very interesting," the irritated girl said sarcastically, "but once again you have interrupted me! Do you not see the seriousness of my predicament?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then you will allow me to continue, _without interruption_." Tossing her head in exasperation, she continued her narrative. "I ignored it, and opened my handbag to get a handkerchief to wipe off the blood. But inside I found a note, written by the Phantom himself… I will never forget those cold, eloquent words… 'Dear Mademoiselle,' it said, 'your interest—" She faltered, too shaken to continue. Digging in her handbag, she produced a crumpled letter. "Here—read it for yourself. But mind, it wasn't the letter in itself that… well, scared me out of the opera house. It gets much worse."

Leonhard wordlessly accepted the letter, smoothing it on the surface of his desk. It read,

_Dear Mademoiselle,_

_Your interest in me is not startling. I know what you're trying to do, and believe me—it will not be accomplished. There have been others, both braver and more cunning than yourself, that have come to this opera house, hoping to find me. They have not succeeded, and neither will you. If you wish to join my __game__, then I will willingly play my part. But I would advise you to leave now, before the first card is drawn and the game is set. _

_O.G._

"He didn't seem to have any difficulty ascertaining your presence as a spy, did he?" Chief Blaise commented, frowning. "I wonder if he has contacts outside of the Opera Populaire?"

"_He doesn't need them_," Rebecca said tightly. "I've no doubt that his powers go beyond mere spiriting of the body through walls and locked doors… more than likely he can spirit himself inside your mind, surveying your innermost secrets and clandestine intentions with no more effort than if he had read it out of a book."

"Are you a spy or the Phantom's campaign manager?" Leonhard asked irritably, his good humor fading. "I don't care about your overblown estimation of his phantasmic powers—_he is just a man_. Now, once and for all, mademoiselle, _did you find the Phantom's lair_?"

"No," she said sourly. All through his admonishment she had stared determinedly at the papers on his desk, her fear of the Phantom being sapped away by fear of losing her job. Of course, she did not doubt what she had seen—that is, not at first. Over the next few months she did indeed manage to convince herself that her horrible experience was merely the result of too much stress and lack of sleep. But, at this point, she merely said, "My apologies if I have caused offense, Chief Blaise… I have failed in my mission, and, if you deem it necessary, then I will return to the opera house."

Rebecca looked at Leonhard expectantly, who was deliberating over his decision. "Your work has always proven more than satisfactory in the past, Mademoiselle," he said undecidedly. In any event, he was not sending her back—he didn't know what all the Phantom had done to frighten her so badly, but evidently a spy was _not_ the route to success. Reaching a decision, he said, "You shall not receive payment for this mission, and it shall be duly noted on your personnel dossier… But you are officially relieved of this assignment."

"Thank you, sir," Rebecca said stiffly, failing to keep relief from her voice.


	28. Queen's Gambit

Okay, I haven't updated this story in five months. To quote Jarlaxle Baenre (who has, by the way, just finished the absolute greatest Harry Potter fic ever), "I know from experience that when you take this long of a break between chapters, you tend to lose all your readers. And I know, it's no one's fault but my own."

**Chapter Twenty Eight:**

**L'Stratagème de l'Reine**

"Mother!" Meg Giry called, forced to raise her voice to be heard over the other chorus girls. "Mother, have you seen Rebecca?"

Antoinette Giry shook her head, frowning. "I have not." The new girl—what was her name… l'Voleta? Not being a part of the upcoming production of _Idomeneo_, the girl had slipped her mind… "Never mind now, dear—we have a production to rehearse!" Addressing the chattering assembly of girls, she said, "Quiet down, everyone!" Everyone more or less came to attention.

Throughout the practice, Antoinette grew more and more concerned over the sudden disappearance of Mlle. l'Voleta. She did not seem like the type that would just walk out without an explanation. There was something professional, almost army-like in her manner. Where could she be? Had she gotten the impression that she was not needed until after _Idomeneo_? Yes, that made sense…

The ballet girls seemed to notice her distraction, for a few of them began to relax a bit halfway through, their efforts half-hearted and apathetic. It took Antoinette only a moment to whip them back into shape, but it displeased her immensely to have to do so. The performance was only days away, for Heaven's sake!

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Immediately after practice, she sought out the new managers. They were both shut up in their office, as they quite usually were. That suited Mme. Giry fine—neither Andre nor Firmin knew anything about the arts to be of any service around the stage.

They were dictating a letter when she walked in, most likely to one of their new consorts in high society. "—many thanks for your generous donation," Firmin was saying. "Rest assured that your money will be used to make our next production the greatest ever seen."

"Don't say 'money'," Andre interjected. "It sounds coarse. Use… funds. Or gift."

"Fine, gift," Firmin said to the secretary taking down the dictation. "And wrap it up with some droll quote from an opera or something, Stella. Have it delivered—"

"_Excuse me_," Antoinette said, rather irritated at being so blatantly ignored.

"Yes, Mme. Giry, just a moment—and have it delivered as soon as you can. You have the address, yes?"

The secretary nodded and left the room. The managers turned their attention to Antoinette. "Yes, Madame?" Firmin asked, raising an eyebrow as if to say, _'what could possibly be so important that you had to interrupt important manager business?'_

"You remember the girl I brought in a few days ago, Rebecca l'Voleta?" she asked them, ignoring the chair Andre offered her.

"The new ballet girl?" Firmin asked with the hint of a frown. "What of her?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Antoinette replied. "I trust you did not take it upon yourselves to dismiss her."

The managers glanced at each other. "No, we did not." Firmin looked very irritated. "Why—hasn't she been showing up for practice?"

"If you seem to recall our conversation on the day of her interview, there was no way she could take part in _Idomeneo_—not with the performance so close—but she was to observe our practices. But I have not seen her as of late."

"She's probably just skulking around somewhere," Andre suggested uncaringly, "flirting with the stagehands or some other such indolent pursuit."

"She did not strike me as the type that would 'skulk', Monsieur," Mme. Giry replied coldly.

"Honestly, Mme. Giry, don't we have enough to worry about without you bothering us with concerns with a trifling chorus girl?"

"If that is your attitude, Monsieur," Antoinette said frostily, "then you will not make it far in this business." She turned and left the office, fuming over the incompetence of the managers. Monsieur Lefevre would not only have shown concern for Mlle. l'Voleta, he would have aided in the search!

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Antoinette's mood had not changed by the time she met Nadir that evening. They were in the parlor off of her rooms, playing chess and discussing _Idomeneo_. Antoinette loved such times, that she might relax with a good friend and forget about her troubles. She glanced up at Nadir, who was frowning over the pawn she had just pushed forward. The bold glow of the fire lit up his features, turning his skin a muted orange.

After some time had passed, Antoinette asked impatiently, "What about this move is so hard? Either take the pawn or leave it!"

Nadir frowned. "This is a hard decision. What has set you on edge, Antoinette, that you are so irritable?"

"The new chorus girl—" Antoinette looked up to see Erik step out of a hidden door. "Erik, hello. Have an éclair."

Erik accepted the tray, selecting a rosette-topped éclair with little partiality. Glancing at the chess board, he remarked, "Queen's Gambit. Are you going to accept, or decline?"

Nadir shook his head uncertainly. "I am not sure. I cannot allow Antoinette to defeat me again."

Seating himself in the empty armchair, Erik said, in between bites of éclair, "Accept. "By accepting, you lose control of the center, but a draw is the best you can hope for if you decline." Nadir nodded his thanks and made the suggested move. Erik, turning to Antoinette, remarked, "Is there something wrong?"

The ballet mistress sighed. "Yes—there is no trace of the new chorus girl. She was only here for a few days, and suddenly—" she halted suspiciously. "Why are you smirking so?"

Erik, who was trying to beat down a diablerie smile by taking another bite of pastry, only succeeded in grinning wider. Trying to swallow without choking, he managed, his eyes flashing with amusement, "I'm—sorry, Antoinette—I didn't know you were so aggrieved over her departure."

Both Antoinette and Nadir stared at their companion, mystified. After a moment of silence, they looked at each other. He did not seem happy, exactly, but had a sort of bitter, malicious pleasure about his manner that disturbed them even more.

Erik seemed oblivious to their concern, seating himself in a chair with a casual elegance that became him much more than his usual serious, reserved demeanor.

"Erik," Nadir said cautiously, "are you responsible for Mlle. l'Voleta's disappearance?"

"You could very well say that."

Antoinette stood, with a manner of forced calm. "You have frightened away a very promising chorus girl."

"Actually, I have frightened away a spy for the ever-vigilant _Sûreté_."

Nadir frowned. "The police force? Why would they have a spy here?"

Erik's eyes flashed with unspoken anger. The very light in the room seemed to dim, as if cowering from his anger. "I do not know for certain; but I'm sure the esteemed Vicomte de Chagny has something to do with it."

Antoinette was not convinced. "Yes? And how do you know she was a spy?"

"Her handbag contained some rather… _questionable _items to be in a chorus girl's possession. Not only that, she was prying into my secrets; asking questions, peering through keyholes, inquiring as to the whereabouts of my 'lair'."

Nadir nodded, motioning for him to continue. "What did you do?"

The chilling smile once again appeared on Erik's lips. "Nothing much. I had many greater things in mind for her—but she retreated after the preemptive strike." Seeming disposed to leave them in suspense, Erik turned his attention to the remaining éclairs.

"Well?" demanded Antoinette.

"Alright," Erik relented. He sat back and, with the air of one relating a very amusing triumph, began. "When you first hired her, I admit I saw nothing unusual about her. But the very first thing she asked another chorus girl—your daughter, in fact—was where Christine's dressing room was. My interest was, of course, aroused. And, having nothing better to do"—he shot Nadir a barely concealed glare, blaming him for their forced inactivity into Christine's disappearance—"I followed her. She did not seem surprised that Christine's room was locked up, and immediately set to picking the lock. I suppose she thought the entrance to my… _lair_… was concealed within."

"Which, of course, is a completely inaccurate assumption," said Nadir, rolling his eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Erik asked with an affronted air, and continued as though he hadn't been interrupted. "I crept right up next to her, as of yet unsure as to just what extent I would frighten her… I whispered in her ear, '_That door is locked for a reason, Mademoiselle._'

"She whirled around to see what manner of opponent faced her—but I was no longer there. From the shadows around the corner, I watched her retreat down the hall to the 'safety' of her dormitory. An easy victory, I admit—but that was only the beginning.

"Apparently she convinced herself that it was just a dream, because within a few hours, she was back—making audacious inquiries of the managers as to their dealings with 'the Phantom'. They started to tell her everything they knew; not much, but still aggravating. Before they had gotten very far, the poor girl was making excuses and backing away from them as if they had a disease."

Nadir sighed. "And why, since you're waiting for one of us to ask, did she do that?"

"She saw a rather unexplainable ghostly phenomenon appear behind the managers. I myself am not exactly sure what it looked like; I was too busy adjusting the mirrors projecting the image… I did, however, catch a rather amusing glance at her face."

Seeing that his companions were not enjoying the joke, he shrugged. "It was a temporary relief from my constant aggravation at Christine's absence. In any event, she retreated to her room. Which was more than all right with me—I was interested to see how she would react to the blood on her handbag… She dismissed the warning note I had placed inside. Quite stoic, that girl.

"I realized I needed something more personal than ghosts and disembodied voices. So I did some inquiring into her background."

"How did you do that?" Nadir asked. "Just walk into the _Sûreté_ police headquarters and—"

"I have my sources," Erik interrupted. "In any case, I discovered a few somewhat… _dubious_ enterprises on Mlle. l'Voleta's part. Apparently she had accepted a payoff or two in exchange for looking the other way. I suppose a percentage of the profits from a smuggling ring _would_ be a considerable temptation… Also, as I understand, she paid someone to falsify reports of her missions, to cover over mistakes and gain her trust and authority among the _Sûreté_. To her credit, she kept these aberrant and felonious acts to a minimum—but her partner still became aware of them.

"When he confronted her, she found herself forced to kill him. Self defense, I imagine, or possibly an accident, but I don't think the _Sûreté_ would see it that way. I took it upon myself to remind her of her transgression every chance I got. Whispers from behind walls, notes in her ballet shoes, a copy of the falsified report she gave of his unfortunate demise…"

"Why didn't you just let the managers know she was a spy?" Antoinette asked, though she knew the answer already. "Let them take care of it."

Erik raised an eyebrow. The glint in his emerald eyes was reminiscent of a prowling lion who had just spotted a particularly weak prey. "Leave the extermination of a spy to those empty-headed fools? I don't think so. Besides, I need to keep up my skills. In any event, she's gone now. I don't think poor _Herr_ Leonhard Blaise will be terribly pleased to receive her report. He has enough to deal with, what with the unexplainable increase in crime lately."

"You know the Chief of Police?" Antoinette asked skeptically, still a bit miffed that Erik had elected to take action without informing her.

"Yes," Erik said carelessly, a slight smile accenting his features. Antoinette did not like that smile. "Though he does not know me."


	29. Edifices and Facades

**Chapter Twenty Nine:**

**L'Bâtimentes et Façades**

Nadir slammed the golden door-knocker into the enormous oaken double doors at the front entrance of the de Chagny mansion. Even with the gravity of the nature of his mission, he could not help but admire the ornate carvings that decorated these doors; _fleurs-de-lis_, mostly, with borders hinting of Victorian influence. It spoke of generations of wealth and power, and a definite claim to high culture and fashion. And yet, in the midst of all this grandeur, he found himself wondering if the de Chagnys had more wealth than sense.

One of the doors opened to reveal an affluently dressed doorman, who bowed to Nadir most gravely. "Good day to you, Monsieur."

"I am here to see the Vicomte, Raoul de Chagny," Nadir declared, feeling just the slightest bit ashamed of his more modest garb. But he raised his head proudly. He was still a Daroga, even if he was no longer in Persia.

"Very good, sir," the man said, retreating from the doorway so that Nadir might enter. He did so, trying not to appear too impressed by the behemoth entryway, with its marble flooring and silver statues. "Who might I say is calling?" the man asked.

"Chief Daroga Nadir Khan of Persia."

"Very good, Monsieur. If you will wait in the parlor, Master Raoul will be right with you."

He led Nadir into a heavily furnished sitting room, bedecked with ancient tapestries depicting the various conquests of the ancestors of the de Chagny line. He bade the Persian sit, and disappeared up the grand staircase. Nadir was left to ponder the exquisite paintings and tapestries, wondering if their images of gallant knights and famed romantics were merely fanciful lies to impress upon the guest the nobility of the de Chagnys. Eyeing a painting illustrating a certain Sébastien Grégoire de Chagny in the company of several scantily-clothed and doting angels, he decided that they were indeed just fanciful lies.

Nadir wondered if he was doing the right thing. When he'd promised Erik that he would come here and see as to Christine's condition, it was merely to get his enraged friend to stop hounding him. Erik had been going on about Christine for _days_, and it was wearing him ragged… But still, to promise such a ridiculous thing…! Why, Raoul didn't even know who he was, for Heaven's sake… But a promise was a promise.

He went over what he was going to say in his mind, starting to feel a bit nervous. _'Monsieur, I am a friend of Mlle. Daaé's, and many of her companions at the Opera Populaire have been most anxious to make sure that she is indeed safe and well.'_ And the Vicomte would say, _'Oh, very well then; Christine darling, come in here.'_ or perhaps _'How dare you impugn my honor by suggesting that I would harm Christine? Guards, run this man through!'_

Nadir wasn't sure which it would be, and had thought about bringing a bodyguard. But such an action would merely show this Vicomte that he was apprehensive—and that was unacceptable. So instead, he had brought merely a dagger and a muttered prayer that nothing would go wrong.

He stood as the Vicomte himself entered the room. Raoul de Chagny was handsome enough, he supposed, what with his feminine complexion and high, aristocratic eyebrows; his eyes were dark, and there was a slight murkiness to them that hinted of anxiety. His suit was of the finest ebony-colored wool, trimmed with gold embroidery, and accented by the ornate rapier hanging from his belt. Yes, the very picture of French aristocracy… And for one despairing moment, Nadir feared that even Erik's genius and talent would be no match for this gallant peacock. But he thrust away this thought as disloyal and absurd. _'Often a noble face hides filthy ways', _he quoted silently, and sat a little straighter.

The Vicomte bowed, and Nadir did likewise. "My greeting to you, Monsieur Khan," Raoul said formally. "Please, have a seat." Nadir did. He opened his mouth to speak, but apparently the Vicomte wasn't finished. "It is an honor to have the Chief Daroga of Persia in my home; to what do I owe this privilege?"

Nadir decided not to inform the Vicomte that he was retired. "Monsieur, I am a friend of Mlle. Daaé's, and many of her companions at the Opera—"

"Ah yes," Raoul waved a hand. "I understand that her disappearance has caused quite a panic. Please send them my apologies. Christine, you see, was overly-strained with all the commotion—not just replacing La Carlotta as Diva, but"—he lowered his voice confidentially—"the Opera Ghost has been causing her quite a bit of fright. She requested a few days reprieve, and I obliged her."

Nadir did not know what to say. It had been almost a week since Christine's disappearance… From the way Erik spoke of him, he decided to distrust this man until proven otherwise. "That is good to hear, Monsieur," he said finally. "Might I see her, that I might convey my relief?"

Raoul did not seem disconcerted in the least. "Why, of course! What an excellent idea!" He clapped his hands imperiously, and a serving maid appeared in the doorway.

"Yes, Monsieur?"

"Have Christine brought down, Victoria. Tell her there is a friend to see her."

The maid curtseyed and vanished up the stairs.

Raoul and Nadir discussed innocent topics until her return, such as the upcoming _Idomeneo_, and the great talent that Christine possessed. When the maid did return, with Christine somewhat leaning on her for support, both men stood. Raoul's smile was dazzling. "Ah, my iridescent _inamorata_—may I present Monsieur Khan. He says your friends at the Opera Populaire have been worried about you."

Christine stared at him for a moment, as if trying to comprehend the meaning of his words. The maid helped her into an armchair and then backed away. "Will you be requiring anything else, Monsieur de Chagny?" she asked sweetly.

"No, thank you, Victoria." Raoul waved a dismissing hand, and the maid disappeared. He seated himself back in his chair.

Nadir remained standing. Stepping forward, he kissed Christine's delicate hand. "It is wonderful to see you again, Mademoiselle."

Christine nodded absently, a light crease appearing in her brow as she tried to concentrate her clouded mind. "Yes," she said slowly. "It's nice… to see you… too."

"Are you alright?" he asked concernedly.

"Of course she is," Raoul interceded. "She's just a little tired. Aren't you, dearest?" Christine nodded dumbly. "She had an allergic reaction to something she ate last night, and the medicine made her a little lightheaded."

Nadir retreated to his seat, opting not to question this explanation. "How long will you plan on staying with the Vicomte?" he asked lightly. "_Idomeneo _will not be the same without you, Mademoiselle."

Raoul looked surprised for the first time that day. "Surely they don't expect Christine to perform?"

"Her part has been kept open," Nadir invented, hoping he was right. Perhaps the girl would consent to return if she thought she had a duty to the opera house.

"Oh." Raoul looked slightly deflated. "Well, they'll just have to get La Carlotta to play Princess Ilia, I suppose. Christine has missed too many rehearsals to perform at such a late date. I wanted her to wait until the opera was over before coming to stay with me, but she wanted to get used to living in the de Chagny House as soon as possible." He shrugged a shoulder with an air of wistful gallantry. "And who am I to stand in the way of a lady's wishes?"

"What do you mean?" Nadir asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Why, we're to be married," the Vicomte informed him, pressing Christine's unresponsive hand to his lips. "Isn't that right, my love?"

Christine nodded slowly, seeming barely able to follow the conversation.

Nadir wondered at this; she seemed to be… lacking somewhat _more_ in mental fortitude than usual. She didn't seem like the girl that Erik fell in love with—from his description of her, she was much smarter than this. "But won't you continue to perform at the Opera Populaire?"

Christine frowned, trying to sort out her thoughts. _There was something in the back of her mind that ached with the thought of the opera house; there was something there… something that she missed terribly. But what was it? A person, perhaps? She couldn't remember…_ "Raoul," she said at last, "something at the… opera house… There's something… I—I need to go there."

Raoul had to fight to hide his surprise. "But of course, my sweet—whatever you like. Yes, I suppose you'd like to see it one more time before we go to Greece."

"Greece?" Nadir asked sharply. This meeting was not going at all how he had planned.

"Yes—our honeymoon," the Vicomte explained distractedly. "Why don't we go to the premiere of _Idomeneo_, Christine? Yes, that would be very enjoyable—I've always loved the scene in act three where Ilia asks the breeze to carry her love to Idamante… It invokes such a pathos, a glorious rise of emotion! What do you say, my dear?"

Christine nodded again.

"Well then, it's settled!" Raoul stood, and Nadir followed suit. "We'll see you then, Monsieur Khan. My deepest appreciation for your interest in Christine's wellbeing."

Nadir knew a dismissal when he heard one. Bowing, he kissed Christine's hand again and left the mansion. All during the carriage ride back to the Opera Populaire, he puzzled over his confrontation with the notorious Vicomte. There was something suspicious about his domination of the conversation, but what could he do about it? And, more importantly, what would he tell Erik?


	30. More Plans

**Chapter Thirty:**

**Plus de Plans**

"Monsieur, I'm sorry, but Chief Blaise is busy—"

Raoul strode past the protesting secretary, growing more anxious with every passing moment. The fate of dear Christine was occupying his mind in its entirety, and he could think of nothing else. Throwing open the door to the police chief's office, he announced,

"Christine wants to go to the opera."

The chief, Leonhard Blaise, looked up from his desk, seeming singularly irritated by this intrusion. But what could possibly be more important than Christine's safety? The petty complaints of squabbling neighbors? A few poor peasants stealing medicine? Ridiculous! Perhaps it was because the man was German—that was why his priorities were all mixed up.

In any event, the man ran an aggrieved hand through his fury of hair, inciting it on to further levels of dishevelment, saying, "Vicomte, please don't tell me you came down here to tell me that Miss Daaé wishes to see an opera. Just take her to one. _Idomeneo_ is supposed to be good."

Raoul felt like screaming at this man's incompetence. "No," he growled, entering the office and shutting the door with what, from anyone less gentlemanly, would have been a slam. "It's _Idomeneo_ she wants to see—_at the Opera Populaire_."

The chief stared at him, uncomprehending. How on earth had this stupid man ever reached such a high office? "I'm failing to see the problem, Vicomte," he said finally, tapping his pencil against the surface of the desk with barely-masked impatience. "If you think the Phantom would interfere, then don't let her go. _Cosí Fan Tutte_ is playing at the Grand Opera—"

"She doesn't want to see _Cosí Fan Tutte,_" Raoul snapped. "She wants to see _Idomeneo_!"

"Then let her go," Blaise suggested. The tapping was getting harder and faster, as though it were an outlet for the chief's anger.

God, what a fool this man was! "I _want_ a police escort."

The pencil snapped, sending shards of wood and lead all over the desk. Chief Blaise did not notice. "You can't be serious!" he blazed, standing so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor. "We are stretched to the breaking point _without_ participating in your paranoid vendetta."

Raoul had to fight to keep his hand off the hilt of his rapier. Calm; he had to be calm, unmovable. Anger would not get him anywhere here. "It is your job to keep the citizens of Paris safe."

"There are more people in Paris than you and Miss Daaé," Blaise replied sourly.

"You would willingly send her into danger when there was something you could have done to prevent it?"

"There is nothing I _can _do, Vicomte, _that's my point_. Besides, it's _you _sending her into danger. I'm not the one that wants her to see _Idomeneo_."

Time to change tactics. "When I said before that I could have your job, I meant it, Monsieur."

"Go ahead," replied the chief, smiling slightly. The threat hadn't worked the first time either. What kind of connections must this man have, to meet the de Chagny house with such unshaken amusement? Or perhaps he was just stupid.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

The Opera Populaire was bustling with preparation and excitement for the upcoming _Idomeneo_. It had a different kind of feel to it than usual, however—ever since Christine had left, the Opera Ghost had stopped making himself known. Without this dark shadow looming overhead, more people were going about their duties with zeal and energy. It was rumored that the King himself would be attending, and so the statues were polished and the crystal shined, costumes doubly furnished and lines rehearsed to the point of exhaustion. Fortunately, the new managers (they were still referred to as "new", even though it had been months since their arrival) stayed out of the way, for the most part, and so everything ran smoothly. The same could not be said for La Carlotta, however, who had seen Christine's withdrawal as a sort of testament to her own glorious undefeatability as the sole diva of the opera house. In this inflated frame of mind, she had taken to strutting about the corridors and projecting her opinions in a very high, accented voice about every imaginable thing, from the incorrect tying of one unfortunate girl's ballet slippers to the "_muy ridiculoso y feo_" shade of the backstage curtains.

And amidst all this pomp and merry chaos was Antoinette, directing the rehearsal and arguing with various members of the cast, stage crew, and set designers, her sharp voice making itself plainly heard above the pandemonium. And yet, somehow, her mind kept treacherously shifting down below the floor, below the cellars, to where a half-masked man was broodingly waiting for report of his diva's condition. She was amazed that he would agree to wait for Nadir before acting; Erik had always been so full of heat and passion... and the inability to heed anyone else's warnings. Which was somewhat amusing, she thought, as he issued so many himself. But lately he seemed subdued, as if, perhaps for the first time, realizing that Christine might be happier in the Vicomte's company.

Antoinette shook her head and returned her thoughts to her work. She had tried very hard to remain neutral in this conflict. While Christine _had _said she loved Erik, she was fickle, and had never been particularly strong of mind; a decent argument or a few romantic words from the Vicomte, and she would undoubtedly turn from him.

Sometime after this thought had set in, she realized how unfair it was. Maybe Christine was truly devoted to Erik. Maybe…

——————————————————————————————————————————————

It was a few hours later that a hassled Antoinette made her way down to Erik's lair, wanting very much to hear Nadir's report. As she reached the end of the stairway—no one ever used the boat route unless they had to—she found Erik practicing different fencing routines in the middle of the room. Nadir wasn't there yet, so she just stood in the doorway, content to watch.

His dark hair, usually so perfect and orderly, was running wild, black locks dancing as he shot through increasingly complicated maneuvers. He had removed his mask, as he always did when fencing. Sweat trickled down both sides of his face with little preference, making his deformities shine in the wavering candlelight. The ghost of a smile flickered across his features, and Antoinette was struck with the impression that his invisible opponent was the Vicomte.

Erik cut off in the middle of a parry, focus suddenly switched to the stairway. For a moment Antoinette wondered what on earth had distracted him, but then she heard footsteps as well. Realizing she was blocking the foot of the stairs, she moved to one side and glanced up to see Nadir. He looked pale and resolute… She felt her heart flutter; was the news really so bad?

Apparently Erik noticed this as well, for he frowned as he sheathed his sword and said shortly, "Well?"

The Persian did not attempt to dodge the question or change the subject; he knew his friend's furious impatience much too well for that. "She is fine."

Erik's already twisted face contorted further in a look of consternation. "The Vicomte is not treating her badly, or… holding her… against her will?" Erik's voice was bordering on anger.

"No," Nadir replied uncomfortably. "I interrogated her as thoroughly as I could in the Vicomte's presence, but she seemed perfectly content. However, she wants to see _Idomeneo_, and despite the Vicomte's objections would not be turned from it." This seemed to conclude his report, for he glanced at Antoinette and retreated to stand by her. They both waited for Erik's reaction, hoping against all odds that he would remain calm.

And, strangely, instead of flying into a rage and making immediately for the de Chagny mansion, he returned to his fencing practice. Everything seemed as it had been before Nadir's arrival, and yet completely different—the air held none of the former strained silence, and Erik almost seemed to be smiling.

Antoinette and Nadir glanced at each other uncertainly, a nervousness that was not entirely unfounded. It was apparent to both of them that Christine had chosen to stay with Raoul de Chagny, instead of Erik. Did he not understand that? "Um, Erik—"

"It's perfect," he interrupted, ending a series of parries and thrusts and beginning a faster one. "Thank you, Nadir."

"What is perfect?" Antoinette demanded crossly; much as she liked Erik, he enjoyed leaving her and Nadir in the dark too much for her liking.

He abruptly halted and sheathed his blade with a curt motion. "Christine's plan. Obviously she's afraid to face the Vicomte head on—I do suppose he had _cavalcades_ of soldiers at his command—and has lulled him into a false sense of security until the opening night of _Idomeneo_, when she can escape. I _am_ flattered that she would remain in the Vicomte's clutches to avoid an open fight, but I _do _wish she had more confidence in my abilities… But, nevertheless, this is most auspicious—to dispose of the Vicomte at the pinnacle of his victory!"

His two companions glanced at each other for what felt like the millionth time, expressions incredulous and yet strangely hopeful. Perhaps it would all end happily after all…

——————————————————————————————————————————————

After writing this, I almost started to believe that Christine was really smart enough to come up with such a plan. sigh But no. 'Fraid not. If Christine was smart, then there wouldn't have been much of a story, now would there? 


	31. Anger and Drugged Confusion

**Chapter Thirty One:**

**Colère**** et Confusion-D****rogué**

Comte Philippe de Chagny looked up from his copy of _The Merchant of Venice_ as Raoul stormed into the room. Though Raoul was making no attempt at silence, Christine, who was sitting in the window seat across the room, did not look up. Perhaps she was just pretending not to see her fiancée's ungentlemanly rage, but she really should have shown some support. But no matter; he turned his attention back to Raoul, who was speaking very loudly. Philippe assumed from his brother's expression that something had gone awry, and, sighing, marked his page. It seemed he would have to wait to find out if Antonio lived or died. "What's wrong?" he asked finally.

Raoul's narrowed eyes glittered, and for a brief moment, Philippe was struck by his appearance—he looked just like Shylock demanding his pound of flesh from Antonio. He frowned and shoved this terrible thought away; what kind of a thing was that to think about one's brother?

"The police chief has refused to aid us," Raoul spat furiously, hand rigidly gripping the hilt of his rapier.

Philippe's eyebrows rose. "Chief Blaise has always seemed quite competent. Did you explain the situation?"

"Several times," his brother averred angrily. "And he good as told me to go to Hell!"

Fingering the spine of his book, Philippe fell back into the familiar position of calm, older brother. It didn't bother him, but surely Raoul could fight his own battles by now. However, Christine's unfortunate position in the situation demanded attention; now was not the time to abandon Raoul. "And you still intend to let Christine go?" he asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

Christine, who had not shown any sign of interest in their conversation, looked over at the mention of her name. Her sylphan eyes were wide with uncorrupted innocence, and her sensuous mouth shaped in an inquiring 'O'. Such a beautiful girl… Perhaps not the brightest, but Raoul loved her; that was the important thing.

Raoul turned towards her, and his hard expression melted away. "We were speaking of you, dearest. Do you still so fervently desire to see _Idomeneo_?"

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded mutely. Philippe liked that about her; no mindless gossip or embarrassing coquetry. Just angelic silence. With no other woman in the room could he have just sat and read, without being expected to make superfluous conversation about the weather and the new dress shop on Market Street. It almost made up for the fact that she was commonborn. Though his misgivings had been significantly reduced when Raoul had informed him of the elevated status of Christine's father as a celebrated violinist.

After a moment of this lingering thought, he realized that Raoul was waiting for him to speak. "I'm sure the police have their hands full protecting the city," he said calmly. "If there is anything I can do—"

"There is," Raoul said immediately. "A battalion of troops, instead of the policemen I had originally planned on."

Philippe, taken aback, did not answer for a long moment. "The army is not for civilian matters, Raoul. To even ask would be—"

"This is not a 'civilian matter'," his brother interrupted, voice rising. "This is war!" His blazing eyes and frenzied countenance were so unlike Raoul, so unlike his brother. A few weeks ago, Philippe had attributed his brother's uncharacteristic determination and irritability to the fact that he was in love. But this… this bordered on insanity.

Perhaps if the Opera Ghost was taken care of, Raoul would return to his normal self… It was this thought that prompted Philippe to say, "Of course, brother—I shall speak with General Laurent about it as soon as I can."

Raoul seemed to relax for the first time in days. Nodding decisively, he kissed Christine and went to leave. Then, seeming to remember something, he turned back and said, "Christine, darling, make sure to drink the tea I got for you." And he strode out of the room.

Philippe unconsciously stared after him, mind awhirl. It would be no matter to convince Laurent to send him troops—he had saved the man's life in the Battle of Camarón seven years earlier. But was that the right thing to do?

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Christine had watched the conversation from her seat by the window, but understood very little of it. Her mind was swimming in a peaceful fog, and she could not focus on something for very long. But that was all right; there were so many pretty things in this mansion for her to think about. The lovely people and shining candelabras… She sipped her tea obediently, and shivered in pleasure as another wave of peace swept over her.

But as she watched Philippe, a strange concern ate at her content. He looked so troubled... Slowly, she rose from her seat and joined him on the other side of the room. Vaguely remembering Raoul's wishes, she also brought her tea. She tried to think of something comforting to say; he was always very nice to her. But as she searched her cloudy memory for some scrap of information to help her, she found that she could remember nothing about the man, beyond his name. This did not trouble her; it was not unusual for her to have forgotten things.

"Is something wrong?" she asked him unhappily.

He glanced at her, and the lines of worry in his face softened. "Nothing, my dear; nothing at all. Just deciding the best way to keep you safe."


	32. Idomeneo: Re Di Creta

I didn't make up the historical facts about _Idomeneo_—it really was _exactly_ a century since it was first performed—nor anything about the opera. Speaking of historical accuracy, did you know that it's impossible for the movie to have taken place in 1870? Indeed; there was a revolution going on right then—the downfall of the second republic—and the opera house was being used as an arsenal for the military…

Oh—and in case you don't remember, the apothecary man specifically said to Raoul about the dosage of his drug (minus the perplexing vernacular): _"And remember, if you want her to be a little more coherent, you'll need a different drug. 'Cause if you give her half a dose of this, it'll work full-force for HALF the time."___Too bad Raoul won't remember.

**Chapter Thirty Two:**

_**Idomeneo: Re Di Creta**_

It was the opening night of _Idomeneo_, long awaited by both cast and patrons alike. After all, it was exactly a century since the famed opera's first performance at the Cuvilliés Theatre in Munich; and the Parisians were determined to outdo their German neighbors. As such, the entire city was in an uproar; every last ticket had been sold months in advance (and yet the managers were still trying to connive ways to cram more seats into the theatre), and grand celebrations were planned to the smallest detail, ready to be set in motion the instant the opera was over. Other Parisians, who had not had the fortune to get their hands on tickets for the opening night, planned parties too—small consolation, perhaps, but what else could they do? At least they could put on a reasonably convincing smile when their wealthier friends spoke most smugly of their seats in one of the forefront boxes.

Insurmountable anticipation surrounded the Opera Populaire, but it did not come close to the excitement inside. Never had the level of stress, nor anticipation, been so high! Agitated performers and stage crew raced about, trying in vain to find something that had not been seen to, something that was not quite perfect. There was nothing; not a single statue did not gleam with unprecedented luster from the attention of a score of people; not a speck of dust on the floor or the curtains, real or imagined; not a single costume that had not been done and redone to the point of unmatched perfection. But this did nothing to relieve the agonized people of the opera house, whose bottled energy would grow and grow until the moment of the performance.

And yet, somehow, there was one person who, amidst all the clangor and excitement of the city, did not feel the least bit happy about _Idomeneo_. No one could understand why; he had all of Box Two to himself, and a beautiful bride to accompany him. Perhaps it was some other worry; but what could a Vicomte have to worry about? Not money, certainly, nor war, ignominy, or lost love… It made no sense.

And this assessment was entirely correct—Raoul was not worried about finances or about any unrequited love. For Christine loved him most dearly, he was certain of it. He preferred not to think that it might just be the effect of the drug he had been giving her for the past several days, no; when they arrived in Greece, married and far from the clutches of the Phantom, she would realize what a great thing he had done for her. But guilt over Christine's incoherent condition was not what was troubling him, not in the least—no, it was the Phantom. Careful questioning of the managers had determined that the Phantom had not shown himself since Christine's "disappearance", and this worried him. Perhaps the repugnant creature had realized that he could never triumph over a Vicomte; or perhaps he simply had some vile trap set for them. Which was why Raoul, after much deliberation, had chosen Box Two instead of Box Five. Cowardly? Not at all, he told himself. Merely cautious. If it was just himself going, he would have chosen Box Five, forgone the battalion of soldier's he'd requested, and fought the monster head on; but Christine's presence made everything different. If he lost his chance to fight the creature, fine—as long as Christine was safe.

Thinking of Christine, he smiled, and his terrible anxiety was momentarily quelled. She was so beautiful, especially in the dress he had picked out for tonight. It was a bit wider than was the current fashion, but—his grin widened—by the time tonight was over, it _would _be in fashion. Regretfully he shook his head and forced his thoughts back to more important matters.

Pacing back and forth across the floor of his chambers, Raoul glanced up at the gilded clock on the wall; precisely twenty-six minutes until the start of _Idomeneo_. It was time to give Christine her dose—her last dose, he told himself in conciliation. But, as he fingered the minute bottle in his pocket, a thought came to him: it was too much to hope for that no one would notice her drugged condition. It was different with people that didn't know her, like his brother, who had noticed nothing; but the people at the Opera Populaire knew her well, and would definitely suspect something. Well, he decided, that was easily remedied—he would just give her half a dose. That way she would be enough like herself to be inconspicuous, but she wouldn't cause a scene. Not that he expected her to, darling girl that she was; but waking up after such a time of muddled confusion, in the lair of the monster…

On impulse, Raoul took another bottle out of a drawer—he'd been forced to buy more—and slipped it into his pocket. If the monster showed himself and Christine was thrown back into his hellish thrall, he could just give her a little more of a dose, and then deal with the situation. It was a despicable thought, to have to drug his dear Christine, but still…

Better safe than sorry.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Snow swirled about in phantasmal gusts, blown in haphazard patterns by the fierce tyranny of the winds. It masked the world in an unfocused white, tricking the eye and intensifying the blinding glare of the lights of Paris. The entire city seemed to glow, and the frigid air warmed by the jocund excitement rising from its packed streets. The Opera Populaire itself shone like a celestial beacon, bedecked with lights and the audible echoes of laughter and merrymaking. Its radiance broke through the dark clouds above, and put the rest of the grand city to shame.

But Erik, even as he stood upon the icy rooftop of the great opera house, noticed none of this. As he stared out at the shimmering city, gelid frost and wind mercilessly battering his frame, he felt none of the cold; he did not feel the snow settling on the edges of his mask, and forming ethereal crystals upon its surface; nor did he partake in the great excitement that had stolen over the city. His mind was entirely focused upon one unseen figure, riding in a carriage somewhere towards the opera house…

He glanced briefly at the intricate pocket watch in one gloved hand; twelve minutes until _Idomeneo_.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Christine did not remember very much. She remembered Raoul's house, full of nice people and pretty things; she remembered Raoul's brother, a nice man who seemed always to have a book in hand and a troubled look on his face; and she remembered that there was something that pulled at her, gently prodding the back of her mind, telling her that she needed to go back to the opera house. She wasn't quite sure what it was… perhaps it was the opera, as Raoul had assumed. But she could not even remember what it was called—he had told her more than once, but it seemed to slip through her mind, as did so many things she was told. _Ido_-something… Well, she would know soon enough; Raoul said that the opera was about to start, and they needed to get to their box. She smiled and nodded without speaking, trusting him to find their seats.

As they walked, she could not keep from admiring the magnificent gown that Raoul had bought for her. It was was fuller than current fashion required, reminiscent of the baroque styles of the mid-18th century. Both the overdress and the lace-adorned underskirt were a seraphic white—"the only color for such a beautiful angel," Raoul had said with an adoring smile. It was sleeveless and low-cut, trimmed with intricate patterns of silk roses and glittering silver embroidery. Her dark hair was pulled into a myriad of elegant ringlets, held in place with large ornamental hairpins studded with diamonds; soft shoulder-length gloves of kid leather had kept her arms warm in the harsh cold outside. A glittering diamond choker graced her delicate throat, its brilliance only matched by the translucent fabric that gently enveloped the skirt of her gown, its folds and gathers shimmering like hoar-frost. Christine sighed contentedly; if it weren't for that strange woman, everything would have been perfect.

As they had entered the opera house, a woman had spoken to her. Raoul called her "Madame Giry". The lady had seemed to know her, though Christine could not recall her. She had said—something… Christine couldn't really remember… She had seemed concerned, for some reason… Oh well. It didn't matter.

She followed Raoul through the clamoring throng, bedazzled by all the lustrous statues and sparkling lights. Their splendor and shine was amplified in her clouded mind, and nothing else occupied her attention for several minutes. More than once she forgot to hold on to Raoul's arm and began to wander off in the direction of some dazzling tapestry or shining torchlight. But when they reached their box—"No, Christine, not that way," said Raoul patiently, "it's over here"—Christine's eyes riveted upon the embroidered seat of her chair. It was a beautiful design of a rose… and a black ribbon tied around it. How curious. It struck a strange chord in her mind, and she spent a few agonized moments trying to figure out where she had seen it before. But, as she ended up doing quite frequently, she finally just shrugged and forgot about it.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

It was not until the third act that the half-dose of the drug wore off. Christine, of course, did not know this—she had no recollection of what the opera was even called, let alone what act it was. It was like waking up from a deep sleep, in that moment of hazy twilight where one still believed the dreams of moments before. She blinked slowly, feeling for the first time in days a vague panic clutch her mind; she could not remember anything of the past week. Still partially under the drug's vile influence, her first thought was to watch the distant figures on the stage, half-hoping that they might disclose some clue as to her situation.

It took a few confused moments of listening to realize that the language being sung was not French. She was not entirely sure what it was… It sounded… Italian? And she had no clue as to what opera it was. There was a woman on stage, and a man… They were in a beautiful garden. She realized after a moment that it was Carlotta on stage, though she could not recall the man's name.

Carlotta looked somewhat ludicrous, even to Christine's clouded mind; her simple slave's garb had been tragically altered with bows and jewelry, and more stage make-up than would ever been allowed for her character. Carlotta looked up dramatically at the man standing on the other side of the stage, and sung a beautiful plea in the strange foreign tongue. Try as she might, Christine could not catch what she said.

The man looked back at her, expression full of stoic resignation, and said lowly, "_Privo del tuo amore_." And he turned from her with the pretense of admiring the garden. Slowly, he plucked a single, perfect rose from one of the bushes. "_Privo, Ilia, di te, nulla mi cale."_

"_Misera me!"_ Carlotta wailed, throwing herself at his feet. Everyone in the audience riveted their attention back to the crying diva. Everyone except Christine.

She was still staring at the rose in the man's hand.

A rose… Yes, a dark, red rose… Tied with a black ribbon.

And suddenly, without warning, her mind was assailed with the memories of years past, each burning and screaming to be heard. _A dying man whispering a promise to send the Angel; the ecstasy of hearing the Angel's voice for the first time; Erik, kissing her; Raoul, dragging her into a carriage—_

Oh God! Erik! What must he think of her? And—Raoul! He had kidnapped her—and drugged her! And here he was, sitting next to her—! Frozen with blind fear, she found she could not move from her chair. _Oh Erik, where are you?_

Raoul noticed her sudden stiffness, and glanced over at her in concern. "Are you alright, Christine?" He frowned, and began to reach for her hand.

A terrible panic exploded in her mind, and she jerked away, waves of fear and confusion claiming dominion over the chaos. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she leapt from her chair and rushed out of the box. She had no thought of where she was going, beyond escaping Raoul.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Raoul whirled around to see the rich velvet curtains flare and wave as Christine sped past them. What on earth could be the matter? There was no way his plan could have gone astray—she was still under the influence of the drug. _Perhaps she just needed to visit the restroom, _he thought rationally. On the other hand, it might have been something more serious.

"See that she's alright," he instructed two of the soldiers standing guard just outside the box. It wouldn't do to make a scene, and let the Monster know that something might be amiss. Which it probably wasn't.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

The tapestried walls and delicate archways of the opera house whirled past Christine's blurred vision, an ever-changing myriad of color and light. She had no concept of where she was, nor did she care. There was only one thought, frenzied and pulsing, beating a tattoo against her ribcage: _Escape… Escape… Escape… _She did not see the people she pushed past, shouting in surprise and calling to her.

No one noticed that she had two shadows—the weak one trailing frantically behind her along the marble floor, flickering and constantly changing shape… and the darker, calmer one above, in the rafters, following closely.

She found herself on the roof, holding the railing tightly within clenched fists, oblivious to the swirling snow and biting cold. The city below blazed in all its glory, every building illuminated to the point of blinding brilliance. It calmed her, and her pounding heart slowly returned to its normal pace. By this time, the drug had fully relinquished its hold, and she was, for the first time in days, in possession of her senses.

For a beautiful moment the danger was gone, and all was quiet. She watched the falling snow with a mild interest, reveling in the peace that surrounded her.

A dark shadow appeared to one side of her, so silent that she did not take notice for several moments. When she did, she jumped in fright before realizing who it was. "Erik!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck.

Though she could not see it, Erik smiled. "How are you, Christine?" His voice took on a sarcastic tone as he continued, "Has the Vicomte treated you well?"

She, in the process of covering his face with kisses, hesitated before answering. She wasn't sure she wanted him to know that Raoul had kidnapped her and somehow kept her in a helpless daze. Erik might decide to kill him. And she wasn't sure if she wanted that. "Uh, well—"

But she had delayed too long in answering. Erik unwound her arms from about his neck, and looking seriously into her eyes, said, "Christine, what did he do?"

She sighed. "I'm not sure—I can't remember the past week very well. It's all a haze… And, from dinner onward—the one with _tembleque_, whatever that is—I couldn't think. Like my mind was all clouded over." At a loss for how to describe it, she shook her head and continued, "What does it matter? Now I'm free of Raoul and we can be together."

Erik's expression had not changed through her account, but now his brow furrowed slightly and he said, "Christine, dearest, I think he's been drugging you."

"Oh. That would explain it."

"But if you were incapacitated," he mused thoughtfully, "as you have indeed described, how could you have had the presence of mind to convince the Vicomte to take you back here?"

——————————————————————————————————————————————

After a few minutes of anxious waiting, the soldiers Raoul had sent returned and reported that they had lost her. The Vicomte, who had by now noticed the portent motif embroidered on Christine's chair, decided he had reason to worry and immediately stood. "Stay here," he instructed the soldiers, and walked very quickly down the hallway.

It was difficult to maintain a slow enough pace that he would not attract attention, but he forced himself to do it. There was still a chance that Christine was fine, and there was no sense incurring the speculation of the people loitering in the corridors. He stopped the first pair of soldiers he saw, whom he had assigned to patrol that particular stretch of hallway, and demanded to know if they had seen Mlle. Daaé.

"No, sir," the one said mechanically.

Raoul nodded and resumed walking, unconsciously faster than he had previously. Where could Christine have gone? Perhaps she was in her dressing room? Or perhaps she had been afraid of the Monster, and had fled the Opera House altogether. He raced to the front door. But the guards he'd placed there said they had not seen her. No longer was he trying to keep his pace in check. He ran as fast as he could towards her dressing room.

The soldiers there snapped to attention when they saw him, trying to hide amused grins at his obvious panic. Raoul chose to ignore it; he knew they didn't believe in the Phantom one bit, and while normally he would reprimand them for doubting their commanding officer, he was in a terrible hurry. "Mlle. Daaé," he panted, coming to a halt before them. "Where is she?"

The pair of guards looked at each other, and the one replied, "No, Vicomte, we haven't seen her. Why, is something wrong?"

Raoul, now beginning to fear the worst, did not bother to answer but ran by them, searching the corridors frantically. But Christine was not to be found. After several minutes of agonized searching, he stopped, out of breath. The guards standing nearby saw him and rushed to his side.

"Vicomte," the one said quickly, "what's the matter?"

"Mlle. Daaé," he snapped. "I can't find her!"

"Oh!" the other one said in surprise. "We saw her run by a few minutes ago." Raoul glared at him, anger beginning to take the place of worry. "Sorry, m'lord," the man apologized, taking a step backward. "We thought you knew—"

"Which way?" yelled Raoul.

The guard pointed.

There was no time to call the battalion together, he realized frantically. "Follow me!" he yelled at the soldiers, sprinting after Christine.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Erik had realized that his assumption had been completely incorrect. Christine had had no great plan. And what was worse, she had been forced to suffer at the hands of the Vicomte because of his erroneous conclusion. He had _known _that the best course of action was to go rescue Christine himself! And he'd let himself be talked into inaction by Nadir and Antoinette… He felt like bashing his head against a wall; how could he have let this happen?

As it was, everything had turned out fine. Christine was here, and the Vicomte was probably turning the opera house inside-out looking for her. As amusing a thought as that was, they had to get down to his lair quickly, before the dim-witted Vicomte thought to look on the roof. But Christine was not to be distracted; she wanted to be kissed, to be held, and he was having a difficult time convincing her that the Vicomte was still a threat.

As soon as Christine was safely hidden away, he would be able to search out the Vicomte and dispose of him. A simple enough task, he thought—but Christine needed to be safe. And besides, what if the dear girl tried to stop him from killing the Vicomte? Much better to tell her after he was dead.

"Please, dearest," he said beseechingly, trying to hold her back at arm's length, "there will be plenty of time for such things later, I promise you—but now we need to—"

He cut off as an agonized yell filled the air. He whirled to see the Vicomte de Chagny standing at the top of the stairs, sword drawn and eyes like fire.


	33. The Duel

**Chapitre Trente-Trois**

**Le Duel**

The two soldiers stared, aghast, at the dark specter next to Christine. It was impossible—there was no such thing as the Phantom! But there he was, clothed entirely in black, save for a white mask over half his face; he stood proud and erect, calmly meeting the Vicomte's glare.

After a moment the Vicomte came out of his stunned silence, and yelled at them, "Well? What are you waiting for? Kill him!" He gestured sharply towards the Phantom with his rapier, eyes holding a glint of rage that bordered on insanity.

The soldiers automatically started forward, but a sardonic smile fleeted across their target's face, and they both halted. It was not that they weren't brave men—but there was something in his eyes, and in the way he held the strange lasso at his side, that made their blood freeze and their muscles cease to function.

Raoul, becoming angrier by the minute, shouted again, "Kill him! THAT'S AN ORDER, DAMN YOU!"

However unwillingly, the soldiers obeyed. Swords drawn, they strode towards Erik, who stepped in front of Christine and lifted his Punjab Lasso, coolly assessing their movements. One of the soldiers hefted his sword, and, suddenly, lunged. The lasso was around his neck in the space of an instant.

Erik held taut on the rope as he drew his own sword, expecting the other soldier to attack. He was not disappointed. As the man's blade flashed through the air, Erik parried it and immediately launched a counter-attack. His movements were heavily restricted by the first soldier, who was clawing at the rope that was squeezing the life out of him. Erik jerked the rope up, and the man lost consciousness. He had no time to retrieve the lasso, however, and continued to fight the remaining man with only sword in hand.

While he was fighting, Raoul slipped around them and grabbed Christine's wrists. "What are you doing up here?" he demanded harshly.

Struggling to be free of him, she cried, "Let go of me! Erik! Erik, help me!" She was still weak, however, and Raoul easily held on to her.

The soldier leapt forward, the tip of his blade aimed for Erik's heart. However, he had not reckoned into his attack the slick ice on the rooftop beneath him; he slipped, lost his footing, and fell with a loud thud. Erik kicked the sword out of his hand before rendering him unconscious with the pommel of his own.

His breathing was still light as he unwound his lasso from the other soldier, not taking his eyes off of Raoul. "You're quite a man, Vicomte," he said condescendingly, "to hide behind borrowed soldiers and let them do the fighting for you."

Raoul apparently had no answer for this, because all he said was, "How dare you kidnap my dear Christine, monster!"

"I'm not 'your Christine'!" the girl in question screamed, trying unsuccessfully to

make him release her with much kicking and scratching.

"It was for your own good," retorted Raoul.

Then her fingernails cut through the skin of his lower arm, and he withdrew sharply, inadvertently releasing her. She stumbled back. "You're both horrid!" she cried. "Raoul, how dare you keep me from making my own choice, by drugging me? I thought you were a gentleman!" Erik grinned, but she continued, "And you're just as bad, Erik—fighting _him_ instead of asking me what _I_ want!"

Erik started to reply, but Raoul raced forward and grabbed Christine's hands. "Please, darling, it's not like that—"

Christine began screeching again, and Raoul found himself forced to tighten his grip to keep her from escaping. His mind was so preoccupied with this task that he was taken completely unawares when a rope flew through the air and tightened about his neck. With a cry, he released the girl and clawed at the Punjab Lasso.

Erik pulled the lasso towards him, dragging the Vicomte away from Christine. He wasn't worried in the least; in a moment the Vicomte would run out of air, and they could throw his body off the roof and claim it was suicide. Yes, that would be perfectly plausible—

Suddenly the rope came away in his hand; it had been rendered useless by the rough cut of a blade. The Vicomte regained his feet and stumbled away, roughly stowing the dagger in its sheath and drawing his rapier. When he was a safe distance away, he glared at Erik through narrowed eyes and assumed _en garde_ stance. A trickle of blood stained the formerly immaculate collar of his shirt, where the blade had unintentionally grazed skin.

Oddly, his expression was not one of fear or hatred, but a kind of maniacal gratification at finally being able to face the creature that had hounded his thoughts for so long. "She agreed to marry _me_, monster—she stayed at _my_ _mansion_ and had a wonderful time, now what does that tell you? What do you have—a slimy cave?"

Christine blushed and looked away, but Erik did not so much as flinch. "Well then," he replied calmly, "she must have fallen in love with all your servants and silk pillows, Vicomte, instead of you."

Raoul's lip curled in loathing, but he had no reply. Instead, he lunged, rapier raised to attack. Erik, who had cast aside the lasso and drawn his own weapon, easily parried it, following with a vicious attack of his own that forced Raoul to retreat. Christine screamed and wailed for them to stop fighting, but the hatred and adrenaline were rushing through their veins now, and they did not hear her.

The snow was still falling, but the dreamy silence had been replaced with the harsh clang of blades. It formed a sort of chilling beat, erratic and piercing, with a speed and ferocity that even their racing hearts could not keep up with. The lights of the city lit up the roof, illuminating their bodies and creating the feel of a divine battle. The steel of their blades reflected the light without reservation, and the brilliance was almost blinding.

Raoul tried to ignore Christine's screams and concentrate wholly on the battle. He was used to fighting other French noblemen, who observed all the rules and had been schooled in the same method of fencing that he had. But the Phantom's style was unlike any he'd ever seen—it was mostly French, but it took pieces of Italian, Spanish, and something he couldn't identify. It seemed… eastern. It was impossible to anticipate. The Phantom would begin with an ordinary French pattern, and then throw something odd into it, like a _roversi_ cut_—_something used with a scimitar, never a rapier! But again and again, Raoul found himself surprised by these unexpected breaches of European style, and was hard pressed to block them all.

He was constantly retreating, frantically trying to assess the Phantom's style and find a weakness. There didn't seem to be one. It made him furious—you _didn't_ use cuts in fencing; no one had for two hundred years! It was ridiculous and out-of-date. But, somehow, it was working. As if that was not bad enough, the roof was precariously slippery from the snowfall, and Raoul's fashionable boots were unable to get any sort of grip on its surface.

Erik pressed the attack, his deadly blade flashing through the air like a brilliant burst of lightning, mercilessly hammering Raoul's defenses. As the edge of the roof got closer and closer, beads of sweat began to form on the Vicomte's brow. The Phantom raised his arm to make a _mandritti _cut, and suddenly, Raoul saw it his chance—as was the peril with such a move, Erik allowed his left side to go unguarded for the space of a moment.

Raoul parried the cut and lunged forward, driving the tip of his blade at the exposed part of Erik's chest. Erik leapt backward, but could not bring his blade around to block it in time. His shirt was ripped open, and the flesh beneath it was marred with a bloody gash. Christine screamed. As the blood soaked the ruffles of cotton and spread across his chest, Erik stumbled back and raised his blade.

Raoul pressed his assault, using the _L'Boessiere _system of feints and attacks to force his opponent to retreat. Erik was forced to step back, but after only a moment switched to _Thibault's_ technique and ignored Raoul's feints, instead concentrating on parrying the real attacks and following them with brutal ripostes. It worked, and soon it was Raoul who was retreating. _Thibault's_ Spanish style complimented the use of cuts, so that Erik was not forced to leave himself vulnerable again. Raoul wasn't surprised by these unheard-of maneuvers now, but they were still foreign enough that he hesitated a moment before blocking them.

But a moment was all it took. One of Erik's attacks was not parried in time, and cut Raoul's left shoulder to the bone. Raoul cried out in pain and jerked back. There was a behemoth statue to the right of him, which he darted behind to catch his breath and ascertain the consequence of his wound. It wasn't cowardly, he told himself—it was practical.

Erik was taken by surprise when Raoul disappeared from sight; it didn't seem like the kind of thing that a high-bred nobleman would do, to retreat like that. But a thought hit him: the Vicomte was waiting for him to step forward to follow, and then take him by surprise. It was so simple. _Well_, he thought coolly, _such a plan is easily foiled. _He quietly made his way around to the other side of the statue, where he could catch the Vicomte off-guard.

But Raoul was leaning against the other side of the marble statue—not waiting to attack, as Erik had thought. In that critical instant when Erik came into view, Raoul's eyes widened in surprise, and he lashed out at the Phantom with his rapier. Erik, also caught by surprise, dodged the blow. It grazed the side of his face and severed the cord that held his mask in place.

The mask fell to the ground with a resounding clatter that was not lessened by the fallen snow. The bright light from the city below lit up his revealed face, and his distorted features looked almost hellish in the harsh shadows it created.

Erik attacked, and Raoul quickly parried and leapt away from the statue. They fought on, but a disgusted look of triumph mingled with the contempt on Raoul's face. "The first time I saw your disgusting face without that mask, I knew that I was in no danger of losing Christine's love."

Erik, instead of being ashamed or dismayed, as Raoul had intended, grinned sardonically. "Wasn't that when she was kissing me?"

Raoul had no answer for this; his face grew more contorted with rage, and his blows became more brutal and erratic. Erik had been forcing him to retreat to the edge of the roof, but, no more than a hands-width from the precipice, Raoul's furious attacks began to turn the tide.

Christine, who had until this point been watching the battle from the safety of the far wall, ran forward. She grabbed hold of Raoul's arm, shrieking, "Please, don't fight anymore!"

Something in Raoul snapped. With a snarl of fury, he wrenched his arm free and backhanded her across the rooftop. Eyes blazing red with maniacal vehemence, he swung his rapier in a wide arc, attempting a _coup de Jarnac_, which would sever the muscle of both of his opponent's thighs.

Erik, who had been anticipating this famous French maneuver since the battle began, parried with such force that it knocked the rapier out of Raoul's hand. Raoul was thrown off-balance, and fell to the cold, snowy surface of the roof, not a foot away from the edge. Erik stood over him, breathing hard, making no move to dispatch his fallen opponent. Raoul glared back, knowing there was no chance that he would be left alive.

Christine, thinking that the fight was over, rushed to the safety of Erik's arms. In that moment of distraction, Raoul leapt up, drew his dagger, and flew at Erik.

Erik quickly turned so that Christine would be protected and grabbed the Vicomte's wrist. Raoul poured all his strength into that arm, forcing the blade closer to Erik's heart. Erik shoved his arm back, ignoring Christine's frenzied screams.

Raoul was thrown off-balance, and his boots lost their footing on the icy roof. Erik, startled, released his grip on this Vicomte's wrist. Raoul grasped frantically for something to hold on to, but to no avail. A frozen expression of shock contorted his face as he tumbled over the edge and plummeted to the ground below. A sickening crack resounded in the frigid air, and Christine gasped in horror. Then there was only silence. Nothing moved, save the ever-falling snow.

Erik overcame his stunned, immobile state long enough to glance over the edge. The body was spread-eagled across the steps of the front entrance, blood tainting the snow around it. Christine, still clutching the front of his shirt, started to look as well, but Erik pulled her back. There was no need for her to see such a horrible sight.

They stood there for a few moments, the knowledge of what had just occurred sinking into their consciousnesses; the only sound that of falling snow. Eventually, the silence was broken as Christine began to cry into Erik's already stained shirt. He, in turn, held her to his chest, kissing her mop of disheveled hair and whispering words of comfort. She had just lost a close friend and companion, while Erik's loss was that of a rival, a somewhat easier burden to bear.

When Christine's weeping had lessened, becoming only the occasional sob, her tear filled eyes turned to look into his emerald green ones. Softly she asked, "What will happen to him?"

Erik brushed a chocolate curl from her face. "The authorities will come and take him away. Then his family will prepare for his funeral and mourn his passing." It was a simple explanation, but he knew she could take nothing but the barest truth in her present state of mind.

Christine looked away for a moment, digesting this information, and her forehead suddenly creased in worry. "And what about his soldiers?" She pointed with her free hand towards where the two men lay motionless. "We can't just leave them up here, can we?"

Erik shook his head and was silent. A few minutes passed before he finally replied to her query, "You shouldn't worry yourself over their fate, Christine, no one will know what occurred here tonight. I will take them both to the tavern down the street. You see," he explained when he noticed her confused expression, "when they wake up there, they will either decide the fight was a dream, or, even if they do tell their superiors, no one will believe them because of the odor that will permeate their clothing."

Then, carefully, almost hesitantly, Erik ran a hand through her tousled hair, a smile on his disfigured face. The lights below lit his eyes, which were filled with tears.

"You have no idea how long I have waited, Christine, to have you in my arms…"

His resistance fell and a single tear rolled down his cheek, which Christine wiped away. She come closer, lips a mere inch from his, and murmured softly, "I think I do."

Then, before either of them could think, their lips met and both silhouettes merged into one misshapen whole. Christine's hands were locked behind Erik's neck, while his were caressing her hair and back. Raoul's demise slowly faded from their thoughts as they became caught up in the glory and magnificence of the moment. Neither could remember another time when they had felt so complete, so wonderfully whole and valued.

Christine was reminded of how lacking Raoul's kisses had seemed to her, in comparison to the overpowering passion that filled Erik's. And then, in that moment, Christine knew. She understood beyond a wisp of a doubt.

Erik was everything to her.

Why it had never occurred to her before she did not know, nor did she care. Raoul was the past, no matter how terrible it seemed. Her future laid with Erik, her true love for all eternity, and she couldn't have been happier that it was so.

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Alas, I cannot take credit for the beautiful, glorious romance in this chapter—that belongs to Obsessedbyerik, whose vast talents have transformed my meager story into something breathtaking... 


	34. Ensemble à la Fin

**Chapitre Trente-Quatre:**

_**Ensemble à la Fin **_

Christine Daaé entered her dressing room silently, removing her black mourning veil and draping it over the back of a chair. A few candles sat lifeless in a soft, golden glow of the sporadic gas lamps lining the walls, and Christine quickly struck a flame to light them. She then sat down in front of her vanity and began inspecting her makeup. It had been ruined by the wiping away of a few isolated tears. The tears themselves were completely gone, but the damage had been done. She frowned and set to removing the trails of mascara that marred her cheeks.

She had barely finished reapplying her eyeliner when a voice behind her queried, "How was the funeral?"

Christine turned to find that the trick mirror had been pushed back, and Erik was leaning against the frame. She hadn't even heard him approach. His relaxed posture would have gone unnoticed by anyone besides Christine, who perceived this slight change in his usually tense personality. There was no sign of his mask, but Christine didn't even notice. "The entire cemetery was filled with people," she replied. "Mostly noblemen. I felt a bit out of place; though no one said anything, I could feel their eyes boring into me. They suspect I had something to do with Raoul's death, can you believe it? As if I caused his suicide, or something like that…. The de Chagnys have their own mausoleum, did you know that? It's absolutely gigantic. They must have emptied a whole flower shop, what with the mountains of roses that surrounded it. And the managers were there; I don't know what they're going to do now that they've lost their patron—"

"And the Comte?" Erik pressed, stepping into the room. "Does he suspect that his brother's death _wasn't_ suicide?"

She shook her head. "I made sure to talk to him, just like you told me. I waited until after the funeral was over, and most of the people had left. Philippe just stood there, in front of the mausoleum doors, and for the longest time I couldn't bring myself to speak to him. But when I finally did, he didn't blame me for Raoul's death. He said,

" 'I'm sorry that you're being subjected to the cruelty of the gossips' stories, Mlle. Christine. I don't believe that you caused my brother to jump—but nothing I can say will change their minds. Take comfort in the fact that their attention, however painful, will pass.'

"And I felt so terrible—he really did love his brother—but I couldn't think of anything to say. In fact, I almost confessed the whole thing to him, so he wouldn't feel so aggrieved. I started to, actually—but he began to speak, so I stopped. He said,

" 'Soon after you left for _Idomeneo_ that night, one of the maids informed me that she had tripped over the threshold while taking out the wastebasket in Raoul's chambers, and its contents crashed onto the floor—broken glass. I was worried about what had broken, so I followed her up the stairs. I couldn't figure out what it was, and decided that if it had been in the wastebasket, it was of little consequence. But the maid, who was picking up the shards of glass, remarked that they were coated in some nameless substance. I was in the Foreign Legion for quite some time, and I realized that the glass was permeated with something that smelled strangely like the narcotic we used to sedate wounded soldiers. I recalled the unexplainable change in your personality the day after you arrived at the de Chagny house, and realized that he must have been sedating you, Mlle. Christine.'

"I told him that I already knew," Christine continued, "and he said nothing more about the subject. I think it was hard for him to talk to me, because of the dishonorable thing Raoul had done. Anyway, he asked me if I was going to stay at the Opera Populaire, and I said yes. And then I left."

Erik nodded pensively, lines creasing his brow in thought. "It would seem that the Comte knows something of his brother's ignominious actions, and believes his death was indeed suicide as full knowledge of what he'd done sunk in. A plausible series of events, I suppose."

A moment of silence passed, in which neither of them could think of anything to say. Christine abruptly stood and blurted out, "I wish you could have seen Raoul when he and I were children—he was wonderful back then, not at all like he ended up. He was brave, and gallant, and kind…." She trailed off for a moment before bringing herself to finish. "I don't know what happened to him; he grew jealous, and hateful, and frightening…. But he wasn't always like that," she pleaded.

"I don't blame the Vicomte," Erik said softly. "He couldn't help being in love with you." Neither of them spoke. Though it was only for a moment, it felt to Christine like an eternity. Then Erik continued, as if he had never paused, "Now, about _Otello_—you'll be wonderful as Desdemona no matter what, of course, but I wouldn't want your reign as Diva of the Opera Populaire to start on a bad note because of an inexperienced counterpart. Jerome Rousseau will be a good Otello—he has a strong, commanding voice—but he gets very flustered when he hits an incorrect note, and refuses to continue. There isn't much you can do about that, unfortunately; many of your arias are duets, however, so make sure to keep singing as if nothing has gone wrong."

Christine was about to assure him that she would do her best when a knock came at the door. "Mlle. Daaé," a voice called, "you're wanted on the stage in five minutes for a run through of the first two acts."

"I'm coming!" replied Christine hurriedly, turning towards the door. She started to walk towards it, but Erik caught her hand.

Then, before either of them could think, their lips met and both shadows merged into one misshapen whole. Christine's hands were locked behind Erik's neck, while his were caressing her hair and back. Raoul's demise slowly faded from their thoughts as they became caught up in the glory and magnificence of the moment. Neither could remember another time when they had felt so complete, so wonderfully whole and valued.

Christine was reminded of how lacking Raoul's kisses had seemed to her, in comparison to the overpowering passion that filled Erik's. And then, in that moment, Christine knew. She understood beyond a wisp of a doubt.

Erik was everything to her.

Why it had never occurred to her before she did not know, nor did she care. Raoul was the past, no matter how terrible it seemed. Her future laid with Erik, her true love for all eternity, and she couldn't have been happier that it was so.

The End


End file.
